


Glad Tidings

by stilinskisparkles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Seasonal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:25:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisparkles/pseuds/stilinskisparkles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Eight people are going to be descending on our home in a mere matter of days, Derek.” Stiles grabs the pizza box, uses it to gesture at the pile of books and papers under the table, away and towards Derek’s sneaker collection. “You want them to think we live like this all the time?”</p><p>“We <i>do</i> live like this all the time,” Derek huffs, stretching lazily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glad Tidings

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [Sterek Campaign](http://sterekcampaign.livejournal.com/), for the lovely Allison, who generously donated and requested Christmas fluff, and I'm so very sorry it's no longer seasonally appropriate, but I hope it met with at least some of your requests, and is worth it <33

“Alright, I have sustenance!” Stiles slams the door shut with his foot, kicks his shoes off and heads for the living room. Derek glances up lazily, crashed out on the couch _exactly_ where Stiles left him when he went to go pick up the pizza thirty minutes ago. He’s wearing mismatched socks, feet hanging off the edge of the couch. One of his arms is cushioning his head, and the other is still draped over the space on the couch where Stiles was lying before. He’d gotten antsy halfway through Lake Placid, started craving something with pepperoni and left Derek complaining about how irritating Bridget Fonda is. 

“Are you serious?”

“Mmf,” Derek gives him a slow smile. “No, I’m sleeping.”

“Cute,” Stiles snarks, and Derek nods looking smug, buries further into Stiles’ vacated spot on the couch.

“C’m’ere,” he mumbles, waving an arm in Stiles’ direction.

Stiles looks around the living room, at their laundry falling out of the basket and preventing the kitchen door from shutting, the plates from lunch still on the table, Derek’s shoes and jackets everywhere. He grits his teeth. He’s not normally bothered about a particularly tidy living space, he himself is not the cleanest, neatest person in the world. There is something irritating, however, about the buildup of crap _anywhere_ he looks. This place is still shiny and new to them; they should be treating it with more care. _Especially_ considering Stiles has invited all their friends to stay with them for the duration of the holiday period.                                  

Stiles rolls his eyes, drops the pizza in Derek’s lap, and Derek hisses as he sits up.

“Stiles!”

“Eight people are going to be descending on our home in a mere matter of days, Derek.” Stiles grabs the pizza box, uses it to gesture at the pile of books and papers under the table, away and towards Derek’s sneaker collection. “You want them to think we live like this all the time?”

“We _do_ live like this all the time,” Derek huffs, stretching lazily.

Stiles watches as his t-shirt rides up, resists the urge to drop the indignant act altogether and bite at Derek’s hipbone.

“Yeah? Well, for Christmas we’re going to pretend we don’t.”

Derek shifts, turns his head up to narrow his eyes at Stiles over the back of the couch. “Why?”

“What d’you mean, why?”

“Scott was round yesterday,” Derek scratches at his stomach, more of his tee sliding up and inviting, warm looking skin _calling_ to Stiles. “Your dad had lunch with us on Friday.”

“Yes, so?”

“So,” Derek arches an eyebrow, “They have already seen our home, Stiles. They know we don’t live in a mansion on _Cribs_.”

Stiles snorts, “Don’t pretend like you know what that is. Don’t pretend to be _cultured_.”

“Don’t deflect,” Derek flashes a grin at him, “And I _am_ cultured. We went to a photography exhibition just last week.”

“Yeah, to look at some pictures Isaac took of birds for his college class, and we didn’t really do much looking at the displays, did we?”

“I thoroughly enjoyed the evening,” Derek murmurs, eyes going dark as his gaze sweeps up and down Stiles’ form.

Stiles feels hot under the scrutiny, vivid memories of Derek’s fingers trailing over his hand, feather light until Stiles couldn’t stand it any longer and pushed him into a broom closet. Scott calls them cliché, Stiles doesn’t care. He does, however, care about the state of their house, and he _knows_ when Derek is trying his best to distract him.

He points at Derek’s face, glares hard, “This is why we never do any housework!”

Derek smiles more widely, grabs Stiles’ free hand and tugs. Stiles goes with it, allows himself to be manhandled back onto the couch and for Derek to kiss the back of his neck, sneak an arm around his waist to open the pizza box.

“We’ll do it later,” he promises.

“You’re _such_ a liar,” Stiles groans, kicking at Derek’s shin, “You don’t even like this movie, we could do it now.”

“Pizza,” Derek insists, shoving some in Stiles’ face, “Eat it. You’ll be less grouchy.”

Stiles snatches the slice of him, twists to glower at his dumb, smug face and takes a _tiny_ bite, chewing slowly. Derek continues eating his own piece, completely unfazed as his knuckles rub along Stiles’ side soothingly. Stiles gives in, devours half the pizza without complaining again.

Before Derek can sink into the comfort of a food coma and the little nest he’s made with _Stiles_ , and blankets, Stiles rolls off the couch and grabs the empty pizza box.

Derek makes a noise of protest, full on scowls when Stiles knocks the television off.

“You go start the laundry,” Stiles peers behind the entertainment unit just in case Isaac’s hidden vegetables down there. “I’m gonna sort out—” Stiles ducks and picks up what looks like the remnants of the advent calendar he gave to Derek at the start of the month. Derek has eaten _all_ of the chocolate inside already. The tiny cardboard doors have been pressed out flat again, as if to hide this very _obvious_ fact.

Derek’s busy picking up empty beer bottles, determinedly _not_ looking at Stiles.

The tips of his ears are pink.

Ha!

Stiles casually examines the box, turning it over in his hands, “You know, when people warned me about secrets straining a marriage, I always laughed at them because, what beats out your husband is a werewolf?”

Derek’s neck is starting to go red and Stiles crinkles foil between his fingers.

“I never even _thought_ about hidden candy supplies.”

“It was an accident,” Derek snaps, turning and pointing a bottle at him. “You were at Scott and Allison’s, and I—”

“Oh my _god_ , you got lonely and ate your feelings.”

“ _No_ ,” Derek’s furiously pink cheeks and guilty eyes totally give him away, though. He hasn’t been able to lie to Stiles for years, has never even really tried past, ‘ _I took the garbage out last week._ ’

“You’re ridiculous,” Stiles says fondly, “The most embarrassingly cute, _ridiculous_ werewolf to ever live.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Derek huffs, and picks up a stray notepad to whip at Stiles’ head.

“No, I’m serious, you _hid_ the box,” Stiles starts cackling, dodging Derek as he lunges to grab it from him. “ _Songs_ will be written about this, sugar, odes, _sonnets_. I’m putting it on Facebook as we speak—”

Derek catches him round the waist, spins until they’re falling over the couch, wrestling for the box.

“Give it to me, Stiles.”

“Yeah, that’s right, say my name,” Stiles laughs breathlessly, holding the box above his head as Derek scrambles around on top of him. Being underneath Derek is certainly not a position Stiles resents, and he rolls his hips just a little, making Derek jerk against him

“Stiles!”

“Yeah, say _give it to me_ again, say _please_ ,” he teases.

There are fingers brushing up his sides, and then _digging_ into his ribs. Stiles squawks, waves the advent calendar at Derek immediately.

“No, I give up,” he cries, batting at Derek’s hands and letting go of the box, “Don’t!”

“You roll over so easy,” Derek murmurs triumphantly, tearing up the box with his claws.

Stiles snaps a picture, grins as he attaches the caption, _Destroying the evidence_.

“Do _not_ ,” he adds after a moment, kicking at Derek’s chest as he sits up in Stiles’ lap.

“You do,” Derek catches his feet easily, rubs his thumbs into the arches. Stiles shivers, jerks away.

“Quit distractin’ me, we gotta tidy up!”

Derek sighs exasperatedly, “If we must.”

“I thought we could go get a tree tomorrow,” Stiles says brightly, drags a couple of storage boxes away from the corner.  “Put it here.”

Derek squints around the room, “Where did the decorations from last year end up?”

“Attic,” Stiles straightens up, beams at Derek, “How awesome is it that we have an attic, dude?”

“ _So_ awesome,” Derek says drily, padding out of the living room.

“Woah, hey, you better not be running away!” Stiles trips over a box following Derek, “You can’t hide in the shower!”

Derek returns to the living room, holding the vacuum cleaner and shoots Stiles a look, “How would I _hide_ in the shower?”

“You’d find a way,” Stiles points at him, “You’re a wily one.”

Rolling his eyes, Derek plugs the hoover in, shoves it in the direction of Stiles’ feet. Stiles shouts in protest, and as he flees the room to find a duster, he swears he sees Derek grin to himself.

Stiles is pretty damn fond of his super grown up life with Derek.

*

“What about this one?” Derek pulls out a bushy spruce Christmas tree and Stiles moves around it slowly.

“I like it.”

Derek narrows his eyes as he looks up at the tree, “But, is it too tall?”

Stiles grins into his gloved hands, pretends to seriously consider this. “ _Maybe_ , can you get your arms around it?”

Derek steadies the tree against himself, tries to wrap his arms around the branches, and then stops, glares at Stiles.

“Oh, _very_ funny.”

“Trees need hugs too, Derek.”

“You give it a hug,” Derek waves the tree in Stiles’ direction, and he jumps out of the way, laughing brightly.

“You’ve got more in common with it, you’re both prickly!”

“You’re a moron,” Derek sighs, dropping the tree back into the lineup and grabbing Stiles’ hand.

Bing Crosby’s _I’ll Be Home For Christmas_ is floating through the air, other families considering trees around them. Stiles’ hand is warm in Derek’s, and his nose is just cold enough for it to really feel like winter. There’s even stray snowflakes trying to build up into real snow drifting gently down over them. He lets out a content sigh and shrugs when Derek quirks a questioning eyebrow at him.

“’S’just _nice_. This is _nice_. This is Christmas in a nutshell. Like, we are the epitome of a Christmas movie, right now.”

“As long as I’m not Meg Ryan,” Derek mutters.

Stiles throws back his head laughing, skids over a patch of ice and almost tumbles but for Derek’s quick reflexes, arms shooting out to catch him at the last moment.

“Hey,” Stiles grins up at him, “Thanks.”

“I told you to wear more suitable shoes,” Derek looks pointedly at Stiles’ battered converse. “Those are spring sneakers.”

“Lydia would be _beside_ herself if she could hear you, right now.”

Derek rolls his eyes, tugs Stiles towards a line of Fraser Firs.

“I like these,” he confides to Stiles quietly. “My mom used to have one in the kitchen. She always used to say there was no point havin’ it in the front room, because we all lived in the kitchen anyway.”

Stiles winds his arms around Derek’s back, presses a kiss to his jacket clad shoulder, “Sensible logic,” he murmurs softly.

Derek nods, looks up at a nearby silvery green tree. “She was smart.”

“You take after her then,” Stiles tugs until Derek turns in his arms and Stiles can hold his face firmly, let Derek know he’s safe and Stiles is here, solid, reassuring and unending in his whole damn everything for Derek. “She’d be happy you remember stuff like that.”

Derek swallows, looks up at the sky for a long moment as his hands clutch aimlessly at Stiles’ sides.

“Thanks,” he says finally, ducking his head and glancing back at Stiles with earnest eyes.

Stiles kisses his cheek, juts his chin at the tree.

“Shall we?”

For the sake of normality, Derek and Stiles carry the tree to the front together. Stiles is mostly having fun with the pine needles tickling his palm, and Derek’s bearing the brunt of the weight, but to the innocent onlooker there’s nothing out of the usual happening.

As soon as they get home, though, Derek hauls the tree up the porch himself and into the living room easily. Stiles rolls his eyes when Derek looks at him expectantly.

“What, you want a gold star?”

Derek shrugs, “Is there one going? Or, should I just put _you_ at the top of the tree?”

“I dare you to try,” Stiles goads, “ _Dare_ you.”

Derek’s over the couch in a millisecond, whipping Stiles up around the legs and hoisting him over his shoulder.

“No, Derek, I’m kidding! I take it back,” Stiles slaps Derek’s ass, tugs hard at his jacket and Derek pauses at the foot of the tree.

“I don’t know,” he shifts Stiles around, grins at him as he holds him up towards the tree. “I think you’d look quite pretty up there.”

“You’re never getting laid again,” Stiles hisses, pinching Derek’s hand.

Derek lets go in shock, and as Stiles drops to the floor he takes a branch with him.

*

“You really can’t tell,” Derek promises several hours later, stepping back to examine where they’ve covered the gap with tinsel and an ugly red wreath Allison made them last year.  It was at a crafts class Scott had purchased for her birthday as an attempt at thoughtful gift giving. Allison did _not_ have the patience for the teacher, who apparently asked them to decorate wreaths with how they felt in the moment. Allison still stubbornly sticks to her guns that she’d felt pregnant and hormonal, and this is what the wreath represents. Derek privately confided to Stiles that he thought it looked more like a bird’s best. Stiles had choked on a laugh and they’d both beamed innocently at a dangerously pregnant, _suspicious_ Allison. But, Stiles has always been a sucker for homemade gifts, no matter how terrible. He likes identifying the person behind the decoration, feeling fond of their existence.

He scowls, however, because it’s Derek’s fault their brand new Christmas tree looks like someone took an angry chainsaw to it, even with the carpet of decorations adorning the branches.

“It looks stupid.”

“No,” Derek says patiently, winding the Christmas lights around the bottom and behind. Stiles watches his ass because it makes him feel slightly better. He’s going to hit that later. Life is still good, regardless of damaged trees. “It looks festive.”

“ _Festive_ ,” Stiles snorts, “I literally cannot believe that word just came out of your mouth.”

“You’ve known me ten years,” Derek retorts, “I’m sure I’ve used it before.”

“Nope,” Stiles makes an exaggerated popping noise, sucks at the candy cane he’d kept aside instead of putting up with the rest, and grins around it when he catches Derek staring at his mouth.

“I have _eyes_ , you know.”

Derek smirks, looks away and up at the tree, “I’ve never noticed.”

Stiles flicks tinsel at him, ducks to turn the Christmas lights on.

“Oh!” He takes a step back, smiles excitedly as the lights illuminate the room, glowing a pretty white gold.

Derek moves to stand beside him, “Now, what d’you think?”

“It looks… really beautiful,” Stiles manages, crunching through the candy cane to prevent himself from getting stupidly emotional about a damn tree.

Sure, there’s an obvious gaping hole, and some of their decorations are frayed from last year, where Isaac accidentally knocked their tree out of the window of their apartment. Their neighbors hadn’t been fussed about the shattered baubles flying through their windows so much as they had been about the wild, flushed Isaac that had followed. Stiles had raced downstairs to knock on their door, laughing awkwardly and blamed it on the adrenaline allowing Isaac to _scale a building_.

But, for an official Christmas tree, for _their_ Christmas tree, it looks pretty darn perfect.

Derek takes his hand, yanks them both to the floor and Stiles squirms until their shoulders are brushing, looks up through the pine needles at the twinkling lights.

“I feel like I’m spacing out,” he laughs.

“I feel like the embodiment of a Christmas cliché,” Derek replies.

Stiles jabs a finger into his ribs, and Derek grins, catches his hand and holds it still over his chest.

They’d only spent Christmas Eve in their apartment last year, Isaac, Scott and Allison joining them for drinks that got…. Just a little out of hand. Allison had fallen asleep and remembers nothing. Stiles _vaguely_ remembers Derek and Isaac getting _very_ competitive about Charades, and then of course, the tree had gone out of the window.

Over the years they’ve _always_ shared Christmas Day with his dad. The first year Stiles had been seeing Derek, Derek had gruffly tried to insist he was more than happy spending the day alone, and Stiles had punched him on the arm. Told him there were only a handful of people on the planet Stiles would share his _dad_ with on Christmas, and Derek was one of them. He _wanted_ Derek there, and Derek was going to come, and have fun, and be merry, and there was going to be _fucking holiday joy_. Derek had looked rather shell-shocked, but there’d been much kissing and exchanging of embarrassingly _adoring_ emotions after, so, it had worked nonetheless. Derek responds very well to being bossed around by Stiles.

He pretends he doesn’t, but he loves it really. ‘S’why he keeps Stiles around.

This year, their _first_ year in their new home, they’re officially hosting. In their ever so slightly creepy, old, house with its irregular floorboards and huge, bay windows that look out onto the forest. Their first Christmas in a house that _belongs_ to them. Nobody collecting rent, nobody complaining about their sex being too loud, or Stiles’ singing in the shower at four in the morning being unwelcome, it’s all theirs. They’ve fucking made it, and Stiles wants to have all the people he loves best round to say _thanks for helping us get there, have some turkey we bought—_ because Derek wasn’t allowed to go out and catch one _—to show our appreciation_.

Stiles _loves_ his special, weird, massive house. It’s too big for the two of them, but they bought it with their friends and family in mind. With perhaps, the idea of a future that involves lots of little feet running around, too, Stiles wouldn’t mind a couple of those. Although, they will have to get a boiler that doesn’t decide to quit every once in a while first; the house gets super drafty. Stiles uses Derek for warmth, buries beneath their heavy quilt that Derek discards in the night, and basks in both the furnace of heat Derek gives off and the entirety of their duvet.

He’s purchased four blankets, and two comforters for his dad’s made up bed. He’s pretty sure his dad feels the cold less than Derek, but he feels better knowing they’re there.

He wants this Christmas to be a success.

“It will be,” Derek assures him, and Stiles realizes he’s said the last part aloud.

He rolls onto his side, props himself up on one elbow as he frowns at Derek, runs his thumb along Derek’s jaw. “How do you know, though? What if my dad loses a toe to frostbite?”

“Stiles,” Derek shakes his head fondly, “You don’t think your dad wouldn’t just put on an extra pair of socks?”

“What if he’s asleep? What if Isaac throws another Christmas tree out of the window?!”

“He didn’t throw it.”

“You are _not_ allowed to defend his actions, because you _totally_ egged him on, winding him up about losing to you at Charades.”

“He was being a bad loser,” Derek scoffs.

“Yeah, and you were lording it over him.”

“I did no such—”

Stiles claps his hand over Derek’s mouth and Derek’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline, “You asked him if he’d like some _pointers_ on how to better his game.”

Derek’s expression goes smug and Stiles rolls his eyes, flops his head onto Derek’s chest.

“I just want everyone to like it here,” he admits quietly into Derek’s sweater.

“They will,” Derek runs a hand up his back, strokes random patterns into his skin, “They like me, they find you acceptable, I suppose.”

“ _Ha ha_.”

“Why wouldn’t they like it here? This is a second home to all of them,” Derek shifts back to look at Stiles, tips his chin up, “’S’our _home_.”

“Shit,” Stiles declares dramatically, “You are so _sexy_ when you get all dopey and sentimental about stuff.” He kicks at Derek’s legs, kisses him until he stops protesting.

*

Stiles is rummaging through their fridge when Derek comes home, shaking off snow and removing his boots at the door. Of the two of them, Derek is far more meticulous about removing footwear before entering the house. Most days Stiles remembers in their bedroom and tries to bury the evidence under the bed. Derek is constantly finding sneakers Stiles has forgotten about, and teasing him mercilessly about it. Derek can shut up because Stiles is the one that has to deal with Derek forgetting to properly rinse the sink out when he shaves. It’s like the fucking amazon when he goes in to brush his teeth after sometimes.  

“Hey,” Derek slides up behind him, kisses the back of his neck.

“Shit, you’re cold!” Stiles flinches in surprise, feels Derek grin and bury his nose in the collar of Stiles’ sweater. “Derek!”

“’M’just gettin’ warm.”

“You’re not welcome here.”

“Liar,” Derek says smugly, sliding his hands under Stiles’ shirt.

Stiles braces himself for more icy skin, and shivers when Derek’s warm, woolen gloves reacquaint themselves with his stomach.

“Ok, this is a new sensation,” he mutters.

Derek hums, nips at the curve of Stiles’ shoulder.

“Wait, wait,” Stiles twists in his arms, frowns seriously at him, “We can’t fool around.”

“Why not _this_ time?”

“Don’t get pissy with me, dude, you’ve got two hands, you know.”

“Yours are nicer.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow, “Smooth. But, we’re still not messin’ around.”

“Then what _are_ we doing?”

Stiles tamps down on the joy he gets from hearing Derek say _we_ , because he should _really_ be used to it after six years, and jerks his head at the fridge. “I’m buildin’ a snowman, and you can help.”

“A snowman.”

“Yep,” Stiles whirls around and grabs the carrot he’d found earlier, and waves it at Derek. “So, when everyone gets here they’ll be greeted by a friendly face.”

“Snowmen never look friendly,” Derek argues, “They’re creepy.”

Stiles points the carrot at him, “Used to live in an abandoned train cart, but snowmen you find creepy.”

“’S’different,” Derek glowers, snaps his teeth when Stiles tries to hold the carrot in front of his nose.

“Which actually reminds me, you need to set up a Skype session with Erica cos I need to get Boyd’s chocolate roulade recipe.”

“You’re a very demanding person,” Derek complains, with far too much fondness in his voice for it to be sincere.

Stiles crooks a grin at him, “I believe that’s why you married me.”

“Nope, that was for your money,” Derek winds an arm around his waist, pulls him in close again.

“Shucks, guess you’re regrettin’ that one seeing as I make _less_ than you in the Sheriff’s department _and_ I’m still paying off student loans.”

“You do wear a very fetching uniform, though,” Derek slides his hands down to cup Stiles’ ass, letting him know just what he appreciates about Stiles’ ridiculously tight uniform.

“I _knew_ you had a kink for that,” Stiles crows.

Derek shrugs, kisses him soundly, “’S’not a secret.”

Stiles smiles against his mouth, bites Derek’s bottom lip gently.

“C’mon,” he pulls away, “Before it gets too cold and we _become_ the snowmen.”

“I vaguely remember you once claiming to be the abominable snowman, you know,” Derek muses as they clatter out of the kitchen and through the hall.

“In my youth,” Stiles clutches his chest, “The salad days.”

“I prefer you now; you’re definitely more amicable towards me.”

Stiles drapes an arm over Derek’s shoulders, “Thanks for the reassurance, baby. I was getting’ worried for a second there.”

Derek’s fingers find Stiles’ ring and fiddle with it as he arches an eyebrow at Stiles. “No, you weren’t.”

“It’s always nice to hear you’re wanted,” Stiles sniffs. He exhales hard, delights in the way his breath clouds. When he twists to glance at Derek, Derek’s expression is intense as he looks back at him.

“What, I got something on my face?”

“I always want you,” Derek blurts out. “Even when you’re being infuriatingly stubborn, or shouting at the Mets, or snoring so loudly I can’t hear David Attenborough’s commentary.” He shrugs, slips his hands in his pockets, narrows his eyes at Stiles for a moment. “Don’t think otherwise, ever.”

“Ok,” Stiles says quietly, kicking at snow bashfully, because it’s one thing to know instinctively that Derek loves him, wants him, _needs_ him and all that jazz; it’s entirely another to hear Derek talk about it. One way or another, it still _always_ manages to catch him off guard. It shouldn’t, he knows, they’ve been together for years, and he feels how much Derek loves him in his bones. But, Derek casually talking about forever and shit still makes his heart pound and the blood in his ears roar. It’s like getting a parcel in the post with something nice inside that you weren’t expecting, or discovering twenty bucks in a coat pocket. He gets to keep Derek. Derek is happy about keeping Stiles. The day is Wednesday, it’s cold outside, Stiles is _married_ to someone he prefers over anyone else.

He clears his throat, points at Derek in warning, “I won’t, so long as you don’t either.”

“Not a problem,” Derek smirks.

Stiles ducks and scoops up a handful of snow, tosses it at Derek’s face. Derek leaps out of the way at the last second, and somehow manages to get behind Stiles and shove snow down his jacket before Stiles has even prepared another snowball.

“Bastard!”

Derek wiggles his eyebrows, grinning like a maniac and suddenly looking five years younger for it. Stiles grabs him by the scarf, kisses him until Derek forgets himself, and Stiles thrusts snow up Derek’s hoodie. Derek falls away, cursing him. Stiles laughs heartily, doesn’t even mind when Derek gets his revenge with a snowball to his shoulder a few moments later. It was worth it to see Derek’s sideburns double in size in surprise. Stiles loves that Derek doesn’t have to feel so controlled and cautious around him anymore. He likes it when Derek wolfs out when he bites his tongue, or comes so hard his fangs extend. It’s satisfying to know he’s helped provide a genuinely safe environment for Derek, one where he feels like he can be himself, in whatever shape he chooses.

Derek hits him in the side of the head with a powdery snowball, and it explodes all over his face. Stiles _hates_ him, the stupid fucker. He was thinking nice things about Derek, too.

“Ok,” Stiles falls breathlessly beside Derek on the snow embankment outlining their front lawn, ten minutes later. “Truce?”

“You know you’re going to lose?”

“Ugh,” Stiles rolls so that he’s on top of Derek, tugs off his gloves with his teeth and wraps his cold hands around Derek’s jaw. Derek hisses. “Call it a truce, bitch, or I’ll never let go.”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Say it!”

“Truce,” Derek tugs at his wrists, not nearly hard enough to hurt, but Stiles pulls away anyway.

“’S’better we’re on the same side for Christmas anyway,” Stiles reflects, shivering when one of Derek’s snow soaked gloves sneaks up his back. “We’ve got Allison to consider.”

Derek shudders, “I still remember when she took out all of us with that blasted snow ball machine.”

“Can’t believe she thought to order one and I didn’t,” Stiles bemoans, “The fun I could have had.”

“The injuries you could have inflicted on yourself.”

“Oh ha,” Stiles pushes himself up, yanks Derek to a stand. “Snowman time.”

Actually getting a carrot to stay in the middle of a snowman’s round, stupid snowy head, is a lot harder than Stiles remembers.

“How did we do it last year?”

“We didn’t make any last year. Your dad vetoed them on account of the neighbors being afraid of your _creative_ choices from the year before.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles beams, “Heh.”

If he’s honest, what he remembers from most Christmases with Derek are long, cozy nights, huddled together in Stiles’ too small bed. Having hushed conversations, and endless make out sessions that never went any further because Derek could never get over his dad being down the hall. Sometimes there were hand jobs in the shower. Stiles mostly had to prevent himself from ripping Derek’s clothes off until his dad left for work. And even then it took a lot to distract Derek from the idea he might come home to check on them. As _if_. Stiles is pretty sure from the moment they told the Sheriff they were together, the less his dad knew about what they got up to under the sheets, the happier he was. It works for Stiles and the idea of his _dad_ and anyone, too. But, he has fond, vivid memories of Derek sitting next to his dad on the couch in hideous sweaters with Christmas trees on the front, and exchanging presents and soft words, falling asleep, surrounded by the people he loved best, and his dad drawing them downstairs with the smell of pancakes in the morning.

“We need to make pancakes on Christmas morning,” he says suddenly.

Derek’s face goes soft, “Of course we do,” he agrees easily.

Kissing in the snow gets very cold, very quickly.  It’s still worth it.

*

Scott turns up on their doorstep at eight thirty in the morning. Stiles can distantly hear the bell ringing—Derek’s eyes lit up when he heard the old fashioned chimes instead of the irritating buzzers of their apartments that plagued his precious, sensitive ears— Stiles is pretty sure he made up his mind to buy the place right there and then. He knows it’s Scott because the bells are tolling in a rhythm similar to _Ding, Dong, Merrily On High_. No one else would dare ring for so long, in fear of being met with an angry early morning Derek.

Stiles loves many thing about Derek, but he truly relishes that neither of them are morning people. They’ve spent many a long, luxurious lie in, basking in the fact that neither of them are inclined to get up, or put any clothes on. Sleepy sex with lazy kisses and half shut eyes might just be his second favorite kind of sex. After _let’s have sex before dinner because we haven’t seen each other all day_ sex.

Did he mention how much he loves living with Derek?

He thinks he’s covered it.

“’S’your best friend,” Derek mumbles, burying under the covers and hiding his face against Stiles’ arm. “You go.”

“No, _so_ early,” Stiles argues sleepily. “You’re braver than me.”

Derek holds up a clumsy fist, and Stiles shakes his own, protests when half comatose, Derek _still_ beats his scissors with rock.

“Always with the scissors,” Derek murmurs, managing to sound smug even as he’s talking into Stiles’ shoulder.

“I hate you,” Stiles snarks, throwing back the covers and making Derek growl, curl up tightly in Stiles’ space as he gets up.

“Love _you_ ,” Derek mumbles into Stiles’ pillow as he grabs it and buries his face in it.

Stiles pauses from tugging on a sweater, gazes at Derek laid out in their bed all sleep tousled and delicious looking. It’d be so easy to clamber back in, mouth lazily at the back of his neck and taste all that warm, earthy skin—

The bell rings again.

“Ugh,” Stiles backs out of the room, “We’re having sex later,” he yells, thundering down the stairs and yanking back the door.

“Dude,” Scott makes a show of covering his baby girl’s whole head with his arms, “Don’t defile my daughter’s ears.”

“You gonna tell her you created her through the power of love, dude? She’s gonna find out about s-e-x eventually,” Stiles declares loftily. “She should just be glad her godparents are voracious.”

Scott scrunches up his nose, “You’re always so chirpy after you’ve gotten laid, it’s your worst tell ever.”

“So, you can say laid but I can’t say sex?” Stiles draws Maddie out of Scott’s arms, looks down at her. “Your dad is so contrary, baby, am I right?”

Maddie gives him a sunny smile, and Stiles grins back.

“I want one a lot,” he tells Scott as he lets Maddie reacquaint herself with his nose and chin.

“I’m not sure you’ve got the hips,” Scott teases, following him through the hall and into the kitchen.

Stiles groans, opening the cupboard and nodding for Scott to grab glasses. “Nobody said you were allowed to make jokes in my home, Scotty, funny is _my_ thing.”

“Funny has never been your thing,” Scott retorts easily, waving OJ and apple juice at him.

“OJ,” Stiles nods at the carton, “If you finish the apple Derek will kill you.”

“I’ve heard _that_ empty threat before,” Scott scoffs, sitting down at the island bar and waving a glittery yellow beaker at Maddie. “You want some water, baby?”

Maddie considers the cup, looks up at Stiles with her big, brown eyes, and he nods encouragingly. She takes the beaker gingerly, considered it for a moment before taking an enthusiastic sip.

Scott visibly relaxes, flops his head into his hands. “I cannot _wait_ to be here, dude. Two whole days without anything to do but eat, and watch TV, and not have anything to worry about.”

Stiles twirls one of Maddie’s curls around his finger, looks at the top of his friend’s head.

“What’s going on, man?”

“Nothing,” Scott rubs a hand over his face, sits up and beams brightly at his daughter, “We just felt like a walk, right?”

Maddie looks at him solemnly over the top of her cup, blows an air bubble.

Stiles grins, wiggles his eyebrows, “She’s got a stellar judgmental thing goin’ on.”

“She probably got it from Derek,” Scott says sourly. “I bet he teaches her on the sly when I’m not around.”

“Hey, his judgmental look has at least four more eyebrow movements, and a mouth thing, and a—” Stiles drops his hand at the look on Scott’s face, “Ok, I don’t need to go on, you’ve seen it in action.”

“I doubt I look _quite_ as fond as you when describing it,” Scott says faux gently.

Stiles flicks juice at him.

“Seriously, bro, you felt like a walk at the crack of dawn?” He jiggles Maddie up and down as she starts getting fidgety, lets her fist at the collar of his shirt and bite down on the material.

“Not for eating, sweetie,” Scott coos, prying her away and setting her on the island between them. Maddie picks up the OJ carton and bashes it against the counter top.

“Yes! Forward thinking drumsticks,” Stiles encourages, “Do it enough and you might wake Uncle Derek up,” he widens his eyes, “That’d be exciting, right? He’d come staggering down here like an angry dinosaur. Maybe he’d growl a little, search blindly for sustenance,” Stiles makes mini claws with his hands.

Maddie ignores him in favor of throwing the carton on the floor and picking up a banana.

“You just can’t get the audience these days,” he sighs loftily, glances at where Scott is gazing wistfully at their fridge, littered with pictures of the little pack they’ve made over the years. “Case in point,” he says pointedly, raising an eyebrow at Scott, “Spill.”

Scott wrings his hands together, “I think… I think Allison might be leaving me.”

Stiles feels his jaw drop, and there’s a crash from upstairs before Derek’s lurching into the kitchen, bleary eyed and concerned looking.

“What,” he says immediately.

“What?!” Stiles repeats more indignantly.

“Why would she—”

“The hell would she—”

“Has she said anything—?”

“Did you ask her out right—?”

“You’re both asking the same questions,” Scott holds up his hand, “It’s already weird enough that you finish each other’s sentences sometimes.”

“You and Allison did that long before us,” Stiles points out, then grimaces, “ _Dude_.”

Derek comes to stand behind Stiles, picks Maddie up and pats her on the back in hello. Maddie’s eyes flash for a moment, a warm gold, and Derek flashes his eyes back. Stiles half watches the familiar greeting, half keeps his eyes on his best friend.

“Scotty.”

“Look, she’s just—been acting weird. Since last month. She’s been… distant,” Scott frowns, scrapes a mark into the counter top and it is a true show of how much Derek loves Scott that he doesn’t even flinch as Scott digs his nails into Derek’s beloved cedar wood island.

He won’t even fuck on it. Waste of utilizing a decent, sturdy piece of furniture if you ask Stiles, but, his weirdo loves what he loves.

Stiles leans forward, narrows his eyes in thought. “I’ve never, ever thought Allison to be less than happy with you, man. And, you guys have got Maddie—she would never—”

“She smells different, too,” Scott blurts out.

“Oh,” Stiles twists to look up at Derek, who’s frowning at Scott, and then back to Scott. “Like, bad different?”

“No, like, happy but confused, like—like she’s afraid to be happy? I don’t know,” Scott sighs, reaches for Maddie and Derek passes her over gently, slides to share half of Stiles’ stool with him.

“Have you asked her?”

Scott rolls his eyes, “Like that didn’t occur to me.”

Derek sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, “Allison is many things, _good_ things,” he adds as Scott opens his mouth, “But, she’s not a liar, she would tell you if something had changed for her. Maybe this is just something personal that she’s going through.”

“But, Allison tells me _everything_.”

“No,” Stiles snorts, “She doesn’t dude, nobody tells anybody _everything_.”

“You don’t tell me everything?” Derek asks mildly.

“That’s different, because I happen to like sharing with you about the fact I saw a cloud shaped like a unicorn, it makes your day colorful. But, the whole world is not as boring as us.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but his fingers steal out under the island and hook around Stiles’.

Scott looks at them dolefully, “I miss her so much, and she’s not even gone yet.”

“She’s not goin’ anywhere,” Stiles insists. “Look, we’re free today, leave Maddie here, go home, talk to her.”

“I can’t—”

“You used to say that a lot,” Derek interrupts, “And it was never true, and it still isn’t.”

Scott straightens up, looks between them, “Yeah?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles promises, “You can do this, man. We’ll look after the sprog; you go get your wife to talk to you. Then you guys can have make –up s-e-x and we won’t even say a thing about it,” he winks, and Scott rolls his eyes affectionately.

“Ok,” he says finally, kisses the top of Maddie’s head, “You got everything she might—”

“Stiles has enough baby rations to feed, clothe and change an entire nation,” Derek assures him, “He’s been stocking up for Christmas since July.”

“Hey! It’s not like we might not need them in the future,” Stiles raises an eyebrow at him, and Derek flushes, looks at his hands.

“I have to go shower,” he announces suddenly, “Good luck,” he adds to Scott, “You’ll be fine,” he finishes curtly.

They both watch him leave, Scott a little bewildered, and Stiles dotingly; nothing makes him happier than seeing Derek get quietly, secretly _excited_ about the future. Derek almost walks into the door, and Scott manages a half amused huff of a laugh.

Stiles hopes more than anything his best friend will be able to keep laughing like that. If someone told him he was going to lose Derek, that Derek was no longer interested, or that he wanted to move on, Stiles would literally want to die. He wouldn’t, because, he’d have plans to formulate and win Derek back with, but it would still feel like his insides had been torn open; like truly losing a _limb_ ; possibly his _soul_.

Scott and Derek have been through enough, he just knows Allison wouldn’t do this to Scott. She loves him so much, Stiles has seen it, believed in it for years.

“It’s gonna be ok,” he says to Scott firmly. “I promise.”

Scott ducks his head, nods jerkily, “Thanks, man. And if—”

“Scott, seriously,” Stiles herds him to the door, holds Maddie up for him to kiss goodbye. “We’ll be here, no matter what, ok?”

“Ok,” Scott exhales sharply. “D’you think I should make her a mixtape?”

Stiles arches an eyebrow, “Are we still sixteen?”

“Fine,” Scott scowls, “But, if it turns out I should have made one, I’m gonna beat your ass.”

“Don’t say a-s-s in front of the baby!” Stiles cries in an exaggerated scandalized tone.

Scott flips him off as he jogs backwards down the porch steps, and Stiles hopes he feels a little better than he did when he dragged his ass up them a short while ago.

*

Once Scott has rolled back his shoulders and made for home, Stiles pads into the living room to show Maddie the tree.

“This is a decoration your mom made us, and this one over here has a picture of your daddy’s friend Danny looking super angry because Uncle Stiles took a bad picture of him he wouldn’t let Danny erase. This one has a picture of your Uncle Derek asleep and hey—this one has you on it! This was you almost one year ago, sweetie pie. Look how tiny you are! You’ve gotten so big, and strong and beautiful. You were always beautiful, though. Right from the second I met you in the hospital.”

Maddie paws at the decoration with her face on it; equally confused and fascinated by the way it sparkles.

“Yeah, maybe by next Christmas you’ll actually know what you’re lookin’ at. You might even be excited about Santa!”

There’s a snort from the door, and Derek unfolds his arms from where he’s been leaning against the frame, watching Stiles. “She won’t be the only one.”

“I think there’s something magical about believin’ in a creepy guy that watches you whilst you sleep,” Stiles sniffs loftily, slanting a glance at Derek, “Actually, the two of you have more in common than I’ve realized before.”

Derek rolls his eyes, comes to stand behind Stiles, wind his arms around his waist.

“We are both aware you’re on the naughty list, I suppose.”

Stiles grins, “Careful, honeybunch, dirty talk in front of the kid might be a bit scarring.”

Derek huffs, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“The only way I know how to be,” Stiles declares, nodding at Maddie matter-of-factly.  “So, chicken, whaddya wanna do now?”

Maddie hiccoughs and lets out a wail.

“Oh, fu— _dge_ ,” Stiles groans, “What did I do?”

“She’s just gassy,” Derek says easily, slipping Maddie out of Stiles’ arms and onto his shoulder. He moves around the room, patting her back and Stiles watches in surprise.

“Gassy,” he echoes.

Derek cranes his neck to look at him, nods and shrugs, “Gassy.”

“But— how do you—what; do you and all little were-babies have telepathic communication, now?”

“No, but that would sure as hell have been useful right after Scott got bit.”

“Ha, he was never a were- _baby_ , he was a were- _teen_.”

“Far worse,” Derek says gravely, still swaying up and down with Maddie. “Can you get me a towel? She’s gonna—”

Maddie throws up all over the back of Derek’s shirt. Which, on closer inspection, turns out to be one of Stiles’ shirts Derek must have thrown on in his haste to get back downstairs and spend time with Maddie after his shower.

Stiles can’t even be mad.

 _Especially_ when Derek gently passes Maddie over to him, and strips off his shirt in the living room.

“ _Alright_ ,” Stiles crows, “Just leave it off—it’ll be safer in case the baby spits up again, anyway.”

Derek scoffs, mouth curving up ruefully as he heads out of the room, tossing the sickly shirt in the direction of the hamper in the kitchen as he goes.

“Hey—cheating!” Stiles cries indignantly as somehow it manages to hit the rim and fall inside.

“Werewolf!”

“Stupid perks,” Stiles looks down at Maddie, “You are gonna be _awesome_ at basketball. Or, d’you think you might take up lacrosse? Your dad’d _love_ that; he’d be so proud and so conflicted.” He widens his eyes, “I might teach you on the sly.”

“Absolutely not,” Derek says resolutely, coming back into the room, re-dressed.

“Why not?”

“Because, she’s a born werewolf,” Derek flops down on the couch next to him; lets Maddie grab his fingers and gnaw at one. “She’s going to be stronger, faster, and dangerous from a young age.”

“So, that means you’re going to insist she not play sports?!”

“No,” Derek grins, “It means _you_ just can’t teach her. There’s no way you could keep up.”

Stiles jerks his foot up to kick at Derek’s thigh, exclaiming crossly and Derek laughs, catches him by the toes. Maddie shrieks excitedly between them and Stiles tickles her stomach, laughing himself when she lets out a long, high pitched cry of glee that makes Derek wince.

“Yeah, us humans can handle _that_ , though, can’t we?” Stiles tweaks one of Derek’s ears fondly. “Too loud for these little babies?”

“Shut up,” Derek grouses.

“Naw,” Stiles shakes his head slowly, peering down at Maddie, “I think secretly you _like_ the sound of my voice just as much as my perfect god daughter does.”

“I never said it was a secret,” Derek huffs, dropping his head back on Stiles’ shoulder.

Maddie clambers between them on unsteady legs. Stiles grins across at Derek.

“I want one.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“But, like, a lot.”

“I know.”

“And you still—”

“I still do,” Derek says softly, runs a hand up Maddie’s back, and then glances back at Stiles almost nervously. “Whenever you’re, _we’re_ ready.”

“I think we are,” Stiles says brightly. “You’re like the baby whisperer over here, and I’ve got brash enthusiasm and an ability to last on no sleep for days going for me.”

Derek purses his lips at the reminder of a more difficult time in their lives. A time when Stiles truly didn’t sleep for days, was tortured with nightmares he still gets breathless thinking about. Derek and Scott were the ones who had helped him through it the most in the end. Scott with his unending patience, and Derek with his refusal to give up on Stiles, to let Stiles be dragged down into what really felt like hell. His own brain working against him. He bites his thumbnail at the memory, and Derek’s hand is suddenly at the nape of his neck, soft and reassuring. His fingers drift under Stiles’ collar, moving in slow, soothing circles. Stiles hums, and leans into it.

“You really think she’d leave?” He asks quietly, “After everything?”

“No,” Derek frowns at the wall, glances at Stiles, “I don’t think she’s going anywhere.”

Maddie takes their moment of peace as an opportunity to stink up the room. Stiles cackles with glee as Derek looks down at her diaper in horror.

“I knew there was a reason I got up early to let Scott in,” Stiles ruffles Derek’s hair, which earns him a scowl. “Dibs, baby, and no take backs.”

Derek sighs, standing and holding Maddie a little like a time bomb. He glances down at Stiles, “You realize if we have children of our own you can’t call dibs _every_ time.”

“That is _future_ Stiles’ problem,” Stiles declares loftily, leaning back on his hand and waving Derek out of the door. “ _Now_ Derek has got a lovely bundle of joy to deal with.”

“Future Derek isn’t putting out later,” Derek huffs, disappearing into the hall.

“Future Stiles’ problem!” Stiles smiles stupidly at the painting of the forest they have on the far wall. Drunkenly, Stiles once drew a mini wolf on a piece of paper and stuck it onto the canvas. It had pointy teeth and huge, frowning eyebrows and is encased in a scrawled heart. He’d thought it a masterpiece. Derek had taken it down immediately. Though, Stiles knows for a fact he keeps that dumb scribble in his wallet. He should probably sign it in case he ever becomes famous, or Derek forgets his name. Not, that Derek would have any problem recognizing Stiles as part of their own mini pack, Stiles is pretty sure he smells more like Derek than himself some days. Derek likes to follow him around and _scent_ him sometimes when the evenings are drawing in and Stiles is feeling particularly lenient.

His dad always chokes on beer when Stiles reveals these odd, precious little wolf esque facts about Derek. Mostly because Stiles always chooses to tell him when he’s picking up his beer.

*

“The great outdoors,” Stiles tells Maddie, bundled up in a tiny red hat and scarf when they step onto the porch twenty minutes later. Derek looks slightly dazed and confused, having seemingly managed to remove the dirty diaper, but greatly struggled with getting Maddie to keep her legs still. Stiles is very proud of him, however, and has kissed his shocked face in reward. Derek has informed him he will be changing the next diaper. Something for Stiles to look forward to.

“This is our porch, and _yonder_ all the land we Hale-Stilinski’s have in our name,” he waves a hand across the expanse of snow covered grass. Maddie looks less than impressed.

“It’s not all ours,” Derek points out, “The tree line—”

“Is technically the earths but, semantics, dude. Let the baby believe what we tell her.”

“That we own the forest?”

“And the night,” Stiles winks at Derek, Derek rolls his eyes. He grabs one of Stiles’ hands, twines their gloved fingers together and tugs. The snow crunches under their feet, and Maddie becomes excited at the sight of the snowman.

“Yeah, it’s a work of art, right?”

Stiles advances, lets her get close enough to touch, and Maddie pulls off the carrot nose. Derek starts laughing at the look of horror on Stiles’ face.

“You are so lucky you’re my favorite,” he tells her. “That took _so_ long to get in there.”

“You’ve said _that_ before,” Derek teases.

“Douche!”

Derek takes Maddie from him, lets him try and fruitlessly reapply the carrot to the snowman. He ends up sticking it on top of its head, alongside the top hat Stiles bought for five bucks from the charity store in town.

“Perfect,” Derek says drily. “What do you think, Maddie?”

“Maddie thinks you should shut up.”

Derek opens his mouth, smiling, and then jerks to look over at the drive. Scott and Allison’s car is pulling in.

“Oh, god,” Stiles murmurs, hovering behind Derek and clutching at the back of his jacket, “Both of them?”

“Both of them,” Derek affirms. “They’re smiling.”

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief, rests his forehead briefly on Derek’s shoulder. Maddie tugs at his hair.

“Guys!” Scott leaps from the car, and then skids in the snow, landing on his ass. Allison races round the car and Scott tries to stop her. “No, babe, don’t run in the snow! Stiles!” He looks over at them. “Derek! We’re pregnant!”

“If you were capable of growing a child you don’t think I would have made sure it was your turn to do so?” Allison huffs, helping him up and dimpling at him as she brushes snow off his coat.

“You know what I mean,” Scott says, smiling brightly. He twists and jogs to where they’re coming towards him. “Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Stiles beams, gives him two thumbs up. “Dude, congrats!”

“She was nervous because we’ve only just had Maddie, but really how much more difficult can two babies be than one?” Scott lifts Maddie off Derek’s shoulder, spins her round. “Especially if they’re anything like this angel.”

“Congratulations,” Derek says softly, kissing Allison’s cheek.

Allison goes pink, “Thanks.”

“Quick work,” Stiles adds. Allison socks him in the shoulder, hard.

*

“D’you think turkeys start feeling a certain sense of _dread_ when fall comes around?”

Derek hums non-committedly, mouth pursed in concentration as he attempts to keep his fold of wrapping paper down whilst simultaneously applying tape.

“I mean,” Stiles continues, uncrossing his legs and resting his feet either side of Derek’s waist. It’s both a way to prevent the presents on the bed between them from tumbling off, _and_ he can dig his toes under Derek’s shirt, searching for warmth whilst Derek’s too distracted to protest. “Lots of birds fly south for the winter, right? So, _some_ of them know what’s up. You’d think turkeys wouldda caught on that mid-November there’s gonna be a riot, and a lot of them aren’t gonna make it out.”

“We don’t eat nightingales for Christmas,” Derek says absently.

“Maybe that’s why,” Stiles waves the scissors at him, then slides them along a ribbon, beaming when it falls perfectly curled, to lie on top of the gift he’s just wrapped for Scott.

 _Fleetwood Mac: The First Thirty Years_ slips through Derek’s fingers, ripping right through the sheet of wrapping paper and he growls in frustration.

“ _Wow_ ,” Stiles says teasingly, “You don’t look like you’re getting into the spirit of things over there, baby.”

Derek scowls at him, picks up the book to brandish it in Stiles’ face, “You do it. Doesn’t Isaac already own enough books about outdated music bands?”

Stiles clutches his hands to chest, “How _dare_ you. Fleetwood Mac are _just_ as relevant today as they were in nineteen-seventy, I’ll have you know.”

“I _do_ know,” Derek points out, catching hold of Stiles’ ankles as Stiles re-wraps the book. “I’ve been given many a lecture over the years.”

“The more you know,” Stiles scrunches up his nose at him. “Turkeys, though, they don’t know shit.”

Derek shakes his head in mock empathy, “If only they’d learnt to adapt.”

“Don’t mock where my brain goes, asshole,” Stiles reaches behind himself, grabs a stack of cards, “Instead, sign these, and at least make it look like you put love into it.”

“How does one put _love_ into a name exactly?” Derek pops the cap of a calligraphy pen, arches an eyebrow at Stiles.

Stiles is caught off guard by the way Derek makes even the most banal action sexy, and leans forward to tug the cap out of Derek’s mouth. He presses into Derek’s space, enjoying the way Derek immediately catches hold of his hips, pulls him closer. The pen digs into his side and Stiles reaches for it blindly, shoves the cap on and tosses it somewhere as he kisses Derek.

“The cards are going to get squashed,” Derek murmurs against his lips.

“Eh, no one will ever know why,” Stiles grins, pushes until Derek’s sprawled back across the bed. “This is totally what Christmas is all about,” he adds, divesting Derek of his shirt and peppering kisses to his collarbone. He rocks down in Derek’s lap, admires the stray ribbons and tissue paper that are nestled around Derek’s head, making him look like a present just for Stiles. “Presents and boning.”

Derek stills from where his hands had been trailing up Stiles’ back, leans away to raise an unimpressed eyebrow at Stiles. “Presents and boning,” he echoes.

“Yeah, ‘s’ the season of joy and giving,” Stiles slips his hand under the waistband of Derek’s sweats, wiggles his eyebrows, “Make sure to give generous—”

“Don’t,” Derek interrupts, surging up to kiss him. He wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist, rolling them and pressing Stiles into the mattress.

Stiles arches into it, feels something pinch against his back, “Woah, hold up.”

Derek makes a halfhearted attempt to stop mouthing at his collarbone.

Stiles fumbles underneath his back, and draws out Scott’s mangled looking present, his spiraled bows crushed.

“Oh, fuck.”

Derek snorts, and Stiles shoves at his shoulder. “Shut up! You’re just jealous your wrapping isn’t half as beautiful as mine.”

“So beautiful,” Derek tweaks the scrunched up ribbon, beams at Stiles.

Stiles can’t help it if he doesn’t feel too bad when faced with Derek’s smile.

It’s Christmas, he’s fucking allowed to feel fuzzy inside.

He kisses Derek hard, discards the present in favor of running his hands through Derek’s hair. It’s always so soft beneath his fingers, and he tugs on the strands, making Derek groan into his mouth. Derek breaks away, tugs at Stiles’ own shirt and Stiles holds his arms up high to help. Derek shakes his head, smile doting.

“You’re a dope,” he murmurs fondly, pushing Stiles back against the pillows.

“I don’t care,” Stiles shrugs. Derek ducks to mouth at his shoulder. “See? The dopes always get the hot ones in the end. I am the loser from the start of the movie that bags the hot chick by the time the credits roll.”

Derek scrapes his teeth against the bruise slowly blooming on Stiles’ skin, arches an eyebrow, “You callin’ me a chick?”

“Nah,” Stiles shoves his hand into Derek’s sweats, beams toothily as Derek’s indignation vanishes and his eyes flutter shut. “Just super-hot.”

“I always fall asleep before the end of those movies,” Derek mumbles, splaying a gently possessive hand round Stiles’ thigh and pushing his legs further open.

Stiles shrugs, kicks off his sweats and pulls Derek closer to him, rolls his hips, “They probably all end up divorced once the adrenaline high runs off.”

Derek catches Stiles’ jaw, thumbs his bottom lip, “Quitters.”

“I know, right?” Stiles cracks a grin, slides his hands over the heated skin of Derek’s back, circles his tattoo with lazy fingers. “Not cut out for the hardships of marriage.”

Derek laughs, sharp and clear against Stiles’ mouth and kisses him until Stiles thinks no more of movies, or anything but Derek’s tongue, and Derek’s fingers and the way they fit together seamlessly. Every time feels good, whether it’s Derek biting at his neck as he fucks into Stiles relentlessly, or Stiles pushing Derek up against the shower wall and sliding into him as the steam clouds his eyes. He knows the planes and curves of Derek’s body as well as his own, likes using his to make Derek feel good, likes watching Derek come apart in front of him. Now, Derek is quiet, eyes hazy and drifting shut every time Stiles does something he likes. It’s slow and delicious and even though Stiles was always a fan of quick and dirty at nineteen, Derek’s pretty much won him around to being a reverent enthusiast of unhurried, deliberate sex. There’s something special, _intimate_ , in leisurely, painstakingly drawing an orgasm out of Derek, something he loves doing almost as much as coming himself.

He likes that a lot, too, though. He likes Derek’s dawdling hands, teasing their way down his body, his hips rolling into Stiles’ languorously, sparking something strong and aching deep in Stiles’ bones in the best way. He doesn’t bother keeping quiet, it’s not like they’re disturbing anyone, and he knows Derek likes hearing him, hearing what he does to Stiles. They’re gonna have company over the next couple of days, spilling into every room and though Stiles is excited, it also makes him want to hoard the moment. To keep Derek cradled between his legs and gasping softly in his ear for as long as possible.

Derek strokes a hand across Stiles’ stomach, noses close to the back of his neck as they drift off later, sated and blessedly warm. “Love you,” he mumbles.

A smile creeps up on him, and he wriggles back against Derek, sighs contentedly, pats his hand. “Love you too,” he slurs.

*

“Two babies,” Stiles says brightly as Allison inspects her list in the mall on the day before Christmas Eve.

“Yes,” she says drily. “On our last count, that’ll be how many there are.”

“That’s awesome,” he cuts a glance at her, “You happy?”

Allison pauses, looks up at him over her list. “Yes,” her eyes shine for a moment, and she bites her lip. “When Scott was at college, and I was travelling, I thought I’d never want to really settle down. I figured I was better moving, keeping…” She frowns, “Keeping a constant vigil, I guess. Coming home, though, it felt good. I know there’s always going to be bad things out there, but,” her hand settles on her stomach, “I want this more. Is that very selfish?”

Stiles shakes his head, loops an arm over her shoulders as he steers them through the huge crowd. “Nope. You were like the Black Canary for a long time, Allison. You’re allowed to have a family, too. You’ve protected us, so many other people—it’s time you did a little somethin’ for yourself.”

Allison snorts, “It’s not exactly a _little_ something; two children under eighteen months.”

“I know,” Stiles scrunches up his nose, “It’s gonna be _loud_ twenty four seven.”

“Oh god,” Allison moans, “What was I thinking?”

“You were overcome with love and adoration for my bff, and figured, hey, let’s add to the brood?”

“Pretty much,” Allison muses, “Though, it wasn’t totally planned.”

“I figured, what with said best friend turning up at my house at the ass crack of dawn in a tizz thinkin’ you were leavin’ his sorry ass.”

Allison scoffs at him, “As if I would. You think _that_ was early?”

“Hey, not all of us have kids, yet. Some of us still have the time and the luxury of getting to have sex late into the night and then sleeping in.”

“It’ll all fade,” Allison shakes her head, gives a loud, exaggerated sigh. “You’ll soon find out what getting up at four am does to your sex life.”

“Evidently not _that_ much,” Stiles teases, poking gently at her stomach.

“Shut up.”

“Seriously, though,” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at her, “How excited are you?”

Allison grins back, “ _So_ excited.”

“Me too! Do I get to be godfather again?” He cuffs his hand under his chin, strokes his jaw. “A man can multi task, no?”

“Was that your Brando impression again?” Allison rolls her eyes, heads for Bed, Bath and Beyond. “It never gets any better.”

“How _dare_ you, it’s amazing.”

“We’re thinking of asking Isaac, this time,” Allison ignores Stiles’ indignation, holds up an indigo towel and then pulls a face. “He really enjoys being around Maddie.”

“Maddie is the best human being ever,” Stiles shrugs, “It’s not hard to enjoy time with her. What if the new one is the devil?”

Allison throws a peach towel in his face.

“Seriously, you think Isaac’s got what it takes to be a godparent?” Stiles follows Allison into bedding, takes the two lots of caramel covered sheets she puts in his arms. “It’s a tough gig, and he’s following in some big footsteps.”

“He has very large feet,” she says dismissively.

“Yeah, but mine and Derek’s big?”

“He’ll be fine,” Allison chides, wandering off towards duvet covers.

Stiles takes a moment to consider some rich cream sheets with a mouthwatering thread count. He thinks Derek would probably refuse to get out of bed for a week if they used them. He just might purchase them. Happy Christmas to Stiles; naked, sleepy Derek for a week. When he glances up to ask about prices, he catches another shopper’s eye. She’s not much older than Stiles, but she’s got a terrifying, predatory look on her face as she comes towards him. Stiles runs his left hand through his hair, _very_ slowly, and looks around for Allison.

“Here by yourself?” She coos as she saunters up to him.

“No,” he says brightly, “Just, uh—my friend—”

“Oh, these would just look perfect with your skin tone,” she runs a hand along the sheet Stiles is holding limply, smiles brightly up at him. “Caramel does wonders for my skin, too.”

Holy god, someone is hitting on him in Bed, Bath and Beyond. This is a thing that’s happening. Why has nobody told him this was a possibility? He would have brought Derek here in senior year and waited as long as it took to get Derek to crack and make out with him in bedding. There’d have been comfy sheets available to fall right into and everything.

“They’re not for me,” he says weakly. “I’m more of a cream colored sheet guy—”

Her eyes light up and Stiles chokes on his tongue.

“Because they go super well with my _other half’s_ uh, skin tone. Yeah, that’s right,” he laughs awkwardly, inches away from her. Shouldn’t Derek have some sort of Werewolf Bat signal that alerts him to when Stiles is in distress, or being hit on in the mall? There should _be_ a signal. “Because I’m married,” he adds in a firm tone.

She barely misses a beat, face flashing in disappointment before she’s leaning forward again, tipping her head to one side as she peeks up at Stiles. “Do you swing?”

“Swing?” Stiles coughs, “You know,” images of Derek being told he has to share _anything_ , candy, the remote, their bed, Stiles, with _anyone_ else flash before his eyes and he laughs hysterically. “I think not? But, thanks?”

“You know, we’re always looking for newbies, adds a little extra thrill to the whole situation when they need showing the ropes,” she takes a step closer, and Stiles wonders if he can use sheets as a weapon.

“I don’t need showing the ropes,” he says weakly, “I have good ones already, really good ones—”

“Stiles!” Allison appears behind him, “Are you _flirting_ with someone?” She scrunches up her face in horror, “When we’re picking out sheets for our baby’s nursery?! How could you?!”

The woman’s eyes go wide, and she backs away as Allison’s eyes start to well up, and she begins to make strange machine gun like bursts of crying sounds, clutching her chest.

“I knew the Chlamydia wasn’t from me!”

“Alright, enough,” Stiles elbows her as the woman vanishes and Allison flips her hair as she straightens up.

She grins wickedly at Stiles, “Can’t leave you alone for two minutes.”

“You’re awful,” he whines, following her to the check out and grabbing the cream sheets as he goes. Price be damned, he’s earned these. “Chlamydia?”

“I figured she might try and find us again later, pounce on you when I’m trying to find a dress for Christmas Eve, better to be safe than sorry.”

“Logical,” Stiles grumbles.

“At least you know you’re still attractive to the wider population,” Allison says comfortingly, patting his arm. “Even if you do scream boring and married to most of us.”

“Derek finds me attractive,” Stiles sniffs.

“I wonder how he’ll feel knowing somebody else did, too,” Allison taps her chin. “Huh.”

“If it’s anything like the time we were in San Fran visiting Boyd and Erica, hopefully super possessive, and growly and _mine_ and shit. It’ll be freaking awesome,” Stiles says brightly, “I might tell him she got a grope in.”

“I wouldn’t push it.”

“Mmm, maybe,” Stiles feels his gaze drift as he pictures Derek leaning him up against the wall of their living room, making sure Stiles knows exactly who he’s married to, and taking and taking and—

“I cannot take you _anywhere_ ,” Allison complains, snapping her fingers in his face.

Stiles grins dopily at her, “Let’s go see if they’ve got any really awful, Christmas sweaters left in Macy’s. Maybe matching ones for Derek and Scott!”

Allison’s eyes light up, “ _Yes_.”

*

“I feel stupid.”

Stiles pads out of the bathroom, swallows hard at the sight of Derek in a plain, sharply cut, dark suit and bright red tie that he’s just _owning_.

“You look… really hot,” he promises.

Derek rolls his eyes, “Because that’s really what I was aiming for when we’re going to your _father’s_ annual Christmas party at your place of _employment_.”

Stiles shrugs, digs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels, watching Derek fuss with his jacket. “We could not go.”

“It’s your dad,” Derek says immediately, “Why would we _not_ go?”

“Because,” Stiles slides up behind him, runs his hands up Derek’s sides, gets hold of his tie and tugs him round, “We could stay in and have fun, instead.”

Derek rolls his eyes, pries Stiles’ hands away from his tie, “We’re going.”

Stiles pouts, “We’re not gonna have a minute to ourselves from tomorrow, Derek. We could totally bail.”

“Hey,” Derek cups his face, kisses him briefly before adjusting Stiles’ own tie, “You were the one that wanted to have Christmas here, you were the one that insisted on inviting over the McCalls and Isaac and Melissa—”

“She can’t exactly _not_ come when she and my dad are totally dating,” Stiles interrupts, “I don’t know why he doesn’t just tell us.”

Derek pauses, flicks his gaze up to Stiles’ as he tugs on his collar, “Maybe he’s nervous about introducing someone new to the family. Sound familiar?”

Stiles scoffs, “You were family before. Besides Melissa’s family, too.”

“It’s different,” Derek says smoothly, deciding Stiles’ collar is acceptable and stepping away to grab his wallet off the sideboard.

“I know I said I wanted Christmas here, and I do,” Stiles assures him, following Derek out of the bedroom and pulling the door shut to keep the warmth in. “And, I’m seriously grateful about how cool you’ve been with it, seriously, love you a lot and gonna come up with inventive ways to thank you, etcetera, I just—” Derek stops on the stairs, twists to look back up at Stiles. “What?”

Derek shakes his head grinning, “Stiles, you’re not _inconveniencing_ me having our friends over for Christmas.”

“But—”

Derek grabs his hand, kisses his knuckles roughly, “What’s that stupid poem Lydia likes from that movie I slept through with the women that had big hair—”

“Sex and the City,” Stiles provides.

“Yeah, the ever mine, ever thine, ever ours crap,” Derek takes a step up, “Think of me, thinking of us, as that poem.”

“The poem from Sex and the City,” Stiles says drily.

Derek hunches up a shoulder, grins roguishly at him, “At least I’m not reading e e cummings at our wedding and tearing up.”

“Hey, fuck you, that was a big moment for me!”

Derek laughs all the way down the stairs, and Stiles pretends not to speak to him until they’re in the car.

“I mean it, though,” Derek insists, reaching an arm around Stiles as he backs out of the drive, fingers brushing Stiles’ neck casually. Stiles huffs.

“You mean what, exactly? Apart from mocking a sincere moment in our lives where I was earnest and loving and you apparently found it hilarious.”

“I didn’t find it hilarious, I found it very romantic and I sometimes think about it when you’re not here,” Derek retorts, eyes on the road, “That wasn’t my point.”

Stiles harrumphs, but leans into Derek’s touch, slightly mollified.

“You want people over, I want people over, you want a fucking snowman in the drive, we have a fucking snowman in the drive.”

“But, _compromise_ , Derek! What if I’m just snow ploughing you with all this crap, and you feel like you can’t say no, because you know, you’re shit at saying no to me, and sometimes I forget to check and—you end up all sad at Christmas!”

Derek’s knuckles go white around the steering wheel. “I’ve never been happier than I am with you,” he says finally, “Shut up and deal with it.”

“Ok,” Stiles lets out a breath, “But, I’m still annoyed at the fact I’ve stupidly not thought about how we’re going to get through the whole of Christmas with no sex.”

“Scott could just buy some earmuffs.”

“And sleep with them on?”

Derek shrugs, brings his hand down to pat Stiles’ thigh, “We’ll get creative.”

Stiles feels his eyes light up, “We could have sex on the roof!”

“The answer will always be no,” Derek replies flatly, squinting as they pull into the car park. “Someone’s in your space.”

“Probably Scott,” Stiles leans over Derek to roll down the window, “Yeah, it’s Scott.”

“Great,” Derek’s voice comes through Stiles’ arm, muffled and ever so slightly annoyed, “D’you think I could be able to _see_ again, as we’re still in a moving car?”

“Sorry,” Stiles sniggers, wiggles his fingers in front of Derek’s eyes just as they’re driving past the entrance to the department where his dad is standing. Stiles whips his hand away, and his dad folds his arms, arches an eyebrow at them.

Derek murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like, “Someone’s in trouble,” under his breath, and Stiles jabs at his thigh.

“Ah, Stiles! Do you actually want to die in the car?”

“You’re taking too long, look, there’s a spot!”

Derek huffs, curling the car into the space neatly before undoing his seatbelt to twist and _glare_ at Stiles. “You’re driving next time, and I’m going to comment every time you don’t indicate, or pause at a stop sign just to see how _you_ like it.”

“I’m used to it,” Stiles says airily, opening the door, “You flinch every time I take a corner too fast for your grandma like tendencies.”

“Forgive me if I don’t want to cause a traffic accident.”

“You drive five miles under the speed limit.”

“I would say something about precious cargo, but I’m not feeling the love particularly right now,” Derek retorts.

Stiles beams at him, grabs his hand and waves at his dad across the car park.

“Festive greetings, father!”

“Stiles,” the Sheriff smiles, nods at Derek, “Glad to see you both made it one piece, regardless of my son’s childish antics.”

“They get easier to ignore with time,” Derek says with a smirk, shaking John’s hand as he ushers them inside. Stiles sticks his foot out in an attempt to trip his stupid, smug husband, and Derek steps over it seamlessly. Stiles smacks him on the ass and turns towards the break room before Derek can retaliate.

He casually helps himself to several gingerbread biscuits, nods at Deputy Saldana, whom, despite working with for three years, Stiles is still far too frightened to call Alyssa, and makes his way to the corner where Danny’s holding court. He’d been working as a seemingly very busy lawyer in the city for the last couple of years, but in the fall he’d come home and smoothly transitioned into working as the town’s defense attorney. Stiles is happy he’s home, relaxed and seeing someone completely unbothered by the fact most of Danny’s friends belong to a pack made up of supernatural creatures. Lucas had complained he’d never seen a more attractive bunch of assholes, and that they obviously put something in Beacon Hills’ water supply. Stiles had warmed to him immediately. He does like them snarky.

Stiles taps his beer against Danny’s, settles in beside him, and casts a glance around the room just to check in on Derek. As if feeling his gaze, Derek turns to look at him, gives him a small, private smile before being drawn back into conversation with Grayson Arrot—their town planner. Stiles knows Grayson wants to buy the land around the house to build on, and he sincerely hopes Derek at least tells him no _politely_.  Judging by the look of frustration on Grayson’s face, it’s unlikely. When they first started looking for houses to buy, one of Derek’s only stipulations was that it was close to the forest, with lots of land. Stiles married a would-be hermit and has no regrets about it. He likes the privacy as much as Derek.

“How’s the shitty weather treating you in that creaky old house of yours?” Danny asks.

“I’ll have you know I barely feel it,” Stiles sniffs.

“Is that because you sleep next to a furnace?”

“Nah, Derek’d get jealous.”

Danny grins ruefully, shakes his head, “You happy?”

“Yeah,” Stiles leans back against the wall, casually keeping one eye on his dad pretending not to be gazing longingly at the buffet table, and the other on Derek. It’s like a reflex anywhere he goes. Whether they’re in a diner and Derek’s sitting opposite him, seriously considering the menu— even though it’s not changed since the eighties—and Stiles can bet you ten bucks Derek’ll have coffee, toast and enough fry up to feed a small family; or they’re in a hugely crowded room and all he can catch are glimpses; he always looks for Derek. He likes to know he’s there.

“I’m relieved to discover it hasn’t come alive and eaten you, to be honest,” Danny says teasingly.

“Hey, man, it’s not that bad! Come over tomorrow night,” Stiles points his beer at him, “You’ll see. Our house is just as pretty and festive as anywhere else.”

“Alright,” Danny crooks a grin at him, “Will Derek be wearing something seasonally appropriate?”

“Hands and eyes off, buddy,” Stiles warns, clapping him on the shoulder as he gets up.

Danny rolls his eyes, “I was honestly hoping you were going to tell me he’d be wearing a sweater with a Christmas tree on the front.”

Stiles feels his eyes light up, “Well—”

“Stiles,” Derek appears behind him suddenly, “I need you.”

“Always the magic words,” Stiles winks at Danny, follows Derek towards his office, “You ok, sweetness?”

Derek arches an eyebrow at him over his shoulder, continues tugging on his hand, “Sweetness?”

“You are sweet, when no one is looking, ergo, you are sweetness. But, not light,” Stiles juts his chin at Derek’s chest, “I mean look at you.”

“I’d rather look at you,” Derek snarks, and really, it’s a magnificent skill Derek has; the ability to compliment Stiles and sound put out about it. Like Stiles has greatly _offended_ Derek by being attractive to him, and made him admit it over the years.

“Seriously, are we leavin’ already? Did you tell Grayson you were gonna rip his throat out? Oh my god, do we need to _move_?”

Derek snorts, “No, I just—” he shrugs, glances around the crowded room, tugs at his tie as he looks back at Stiles, expression harassed, “Need a minute?”

“Ok,” Stiles nods, “We can do that. In fact, I can do a _lot_ in a minute,” he drawls as an afterthought.

Derek rolls his eyes like he’s going to _deny_ the many times he’s come undone under Stiles’ ministrations in barely sixty seconds, but doesn’t say anything. At the end of the day, Stiles rocks his fucking world, and he’s not about to deny it if he knows what’s good for him. He still looks stressed, however, and Stiles squeezes his hand because he gets it. Derek’s _never_ going to be a social butterfly, but he’s learnt to adapt over the years—even if Stiles knows nine times out of ten he’d much rather be at home with a book and nobody but Stiles, or perhaps Scott and Allison to converse with. So many people in such a tiny space, crowding his senses with their aftershave and perfume, the different food scents, the many conversations happening at once—he can imagine it’s a lot.

“Let’s just go sit in my office for a minute,” he says softly, and Derek shoots him a grateful look, squeezes his fingers back as they start moving again.

“Hey, freeze!” Deputy Saldana yells from across the room suddenly, and Stiles automatically stops in his tracks. He hasn’t done anything _wrong_ he reminds himself, as he begins to sweat. All he did was take a few extra gingerbread biscuits—that can’t be against the law, right? Unless, she made the biscuits, or worse, wanted more for herself and she’s discovered Stiles is the culprit behind them disappearing so quickly? Fuck, oh fuck—

Deputy Saldana points above them, smirks at the mistletoe hanging from the office door, “Make it a good one.”

Stiles feels his mouth drop open, “Oh. No, we can’t—”

Before he can explain Derek’s _super_ allergic, and the less time he spends under the plant, the better, Derek is catching him by the tie and kissing him soundly. Stiles makes a noise of contentment, clutches at Derek’s shoulders. Derek loops an arm around his waist, deepens the kiss as his other hand curves round Stiles’ jaw, thumb stroking his skin. Stiles can’t help the involuntary shudder, yanks at Derek’s jacket lapels and someone in the background catcalls. Derek smiles, pulls away to press a final kiss to the corner of his mouth, before ducking back into Stiles’ office.

“Ha,” Stiles waves a hand to the room at large, grins weakly at their amused faces, “We uh—we got pretty good at that the summer after my first year at college.”

He can see his dad shaking his head ruefully, hiding his face, and he tries to smooth his own expression into one of seriousness and law abiding-ness. It’s pretty difficult considering his knees are a little shaky.

“Asshole!” He cries, pointing at Derek as soon as the door is closed.

Derek looks at him innocently, “What? It’s tradition.”

Stiles scoffs, “You just wanted to make sure nobody in the room was in the least bit unsure about who I was with,” he wiggles his eyebrows, “I’m a pretty hot commodity, you know.”

“I do know,” Derek says drily, “Especially when you’re drooling on my arm first thing in the morning.”

“You watch me sleep,” Stiles snaps his fingers, “I knew it.”

“Shut up,” Derek huffs, sliding into Stiles’ chair and spinning it absently. Stiles steps between his legs, runs a hand over his shoulders and Derek leans forward until his forehead’s pressed against Stiles’ stomach.

After a moment, he looks up, quirks an eyebrow at Stiles, “The summer after your first year?”

Stiles shrugs, “Was a fun three months.”

“Yeah,” Derek says slowly, eyes on Stiles’ mouth, “Was… a good…”

“You’re insatiable,” Stiles complains, even as he’s climbing into Derek’s lap, “We should find somewhere better to do this.”

“Mm,” Derek’s hands splay out across his back, pulling him closer, “The fire exit still work?”

“Yeah,” Stiles grins down at him, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Derek smirks, slips his fingers down the back of Stiles’ pants and then trails them up under his shirt, “Probably.”

Five minutes later, he and Derek have abandoned the party completely and are fooling around in the front of the car. Derek’s hands are up Stiles’ shirt, nails scraping gently against skin, making Stiles exhale sharply into his mouth. He feels nineteen again, like he’s just discovered Derek’s mouth, and hands and _everything_. They spent hours learning the shapes of each other’s mouths, the noises they could bring out in each other.

Derek’s mouthing wetly at his neck, making breathless keening noises as Stiles makes quick work of his belt. Damn, he is a _pro_ at this. They are so—

There’s a rapping on the window, and Stiles launches away from Derek, smacking his head against the roof of the car. Derek winces, falls back in his seat and dragging his discarded jacket over his lap as they both look up at the Sheriff guiltily.

“You two gunnin’ for most times ever caught by a parental figure in one lifetime?”

Stiles rolls down the window, gives his father a sheepish look, “Sorry, dad. We uh, just needed some air?”

“Uh huh,” John rolls his eyes, “You find it?”

Derek makes a muted noise of embarrassment, and Stiles immediately tries to stop panting.

“Um.”

“Go home, kids,” his dad turns away, “Drive safe, and I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m assuming you’ll be up by the time my shift finishes.”

“The couch’ll be waiting,” Stiles promises.

“Stiles has brought enough blankets to keep the entire town warm,” Derek says drily.

Stiles punches his thigh and Derek grabs his fist, they both start bickering and when they look up, the Sheriff has gone.

“Rude!”

“He has better things to do than watch us argue,” Derek points out, starting the car.

“True,” Stiles spreads his fingers over where he’d punched Derek a few minutes, “Hey, I know a few better things we could be doing, too.”

“Subtle,” Derek says with a smirk, but he doesn’t remove Stiles’ hand.

The Sheriff drives past and blasts the siren.

*

Stiles is capable of many things, he can read archaic Latin, at college he perfected the art of the keg stand, he’s good with knives and sometimes even at getting Derek to roll out of bed before noon. He cannot, however, bake these damn Christmas cookies to save his life.

“So, the recipe says one tsp of vanilla extract?”

Scott nods, frowning at the ancient book they’ve borrowed from Melissa. In the living room, Maddie squawks and Stiles glances up to see Derek tickling her stomach. That’s—that’s just a really nice thing to look at for a moment, instead of this stupid cooking book he can’t get his head around.

“A tsp?”

“Yeah, like a teaspoon.”

“I know that,” he says crossly, “But, like, how much of a teaspoon. How much do we pour onto the teaspoon? Why can’t it be more specific?”

“I don’t think it needs to be,” Scott says gently, taking the vanilla and the spoon from Stiles’ hands, “I think whatever we put in will be just fine.”

“But, dude—” Stiles grabs the spoon away from him, “Don’t do anything rash!”

“This isn’t rash,” Scott huffs, “This is baking; you can’t go wrong with it!”

Stiles waves at their first batch of misshapen owl cookies lying in the sink, “Clearly we can.”

“Those were a practice round!”

“Allison’s gonna be home from the gym soon, and then Lydia will be arriving, and my dad and—we haven’t done anything! We haven’t even cleaned the turkey yet!”

“I don’t like turkey that much,” Scott says dolefully.

“You—I—” Stiles stares at him in horror, puts his hands on his hips and tries to form words.

“Sorry?” Scott shrugs, “I mean, I’m looking forward to it, I guess? It’s turkey for Christmas! I just don’t—”

“You want me to sit in this kitchen for six hours while that fucking thing cooks, taking it out and basting it every thirty minutes, and then cutting it to rest in its juices and a shit load of other stuff, and all you’re giving me is _you guess?!_ ”

Scott backs towards the living room door, “Derek?”

“I’m here,” Derek slides past him, grabs an apron off the side, “Why don’t you two take Maddie for a walk?”

“I can’t,” Stiles says faintly, staring at Derek in their apron saying _Hot Stuff_. “I have to bake cookies for—you know—Christmas.”

Derek bends to open one of their cabinets, and Stiles tracks the movement out of habit. In the background Scott rolls his eyes, and disappears. When Derek stands, he’s holding two packets of gingerbread cookies shaped like reindeer.

“For emergencies,” he says softly.

“Oh, fuck, I love you,” Stiles breathes, stepping across the kitchen to take one of the packets. He beams up at Derek, “You’re actually a genius.”

“Have you considered the fact he knew you’d suck at baking and bought them in the first place?” Scott calls from the living room.

“Thanks for that,” Derek twists to yell back at Scott, “I hope Allison won’t mind too much when I tell her about—mmff—”

Stiles breaks him off with a kiss, only pulls back when the packaging crinkles between them and he remembers he’s holding precious goods.

“It was good thinking,” he says honestly.

“I didn’t buy them because I thought you’re baking would be shit, I actually like your banana nut loaf very much,” Derek insists, hands digging into his waist in an attempt to reassure him.

“I know,” Stiles laughs. “You bought them because you figured I’m me, and I’d need back up. That’s some _good_ back up, baby.”

Derek lifts an eyebrow, “Do I dare take that one?”

“Nah,” Stiles leans against the counter, pulls Derek with him, “Kiss me, instead.”

Derek obliges.

Scott clatters into the kitchen a few minutes later, hovers behind Derek, “Lydia’s here.”

“Shit!” Stiles breaks away from Derek, “I still need to make the bed in her room. Do we need to iron the sheets before they go on the bed? Are her pillow cases dry? We can’t put damp pillow cases on the bed, it’ll make the whole thing smell—”

“Stiles,” Derek cups his face, “Breathe? She doesn’t need to go to bed at noon, we have time.”

“But, still—”

Derek rolls his eyes, “Come on, I’ll help you make the damn bed before you lose it.”

“Literally blowing my mind with how domestic that sounded,” Scott says with a grin, “Not to mention Derek’s helping you make _Lydia’s_ bed. A plus progression, man,” he claps Derek on the shoulder.

Derek gently takes Maddie from his arms, sets her in Stiles’ for a moment, and then launches himself at Scott. Scott shrieks and bounds out into the living room.

“I’m your guest, you can’t kill me! I was giving you a compliment! You used to get jealous when they breathed the same air! No, Derek, not my hair.”

Stiles looks at Maddie, tweaks her nose, “At least you and I are sane.”

“Said the man talking to the child that doesn’t understand a word he’s saying,” Lydia declares airily, sweeping into the room and kissing his cheek. “My, you’ve grown!”

“Well, I do think I’m coming in a _little_ taller than the last time we spoke—”

“And you’re so beautiful,” Lydia continues over him, removing Maddie from his clutches and beaming at her delightedly. “You look just like your mother.”

“Ok, you’re definitely talkin’ to the baby now,” Stiles leans back against the counter, “I’m the spitting image of my dad.”

“You have your mom’s eyes, I’ve seen the pictures,” Lydia says fondly, glancing at him, “Merry Christmas, Stiles.”

“Thanks, same to you,” he beams at her, “How was your flight?”

“Loud,” she scrunches up her nose, “Intolerable mostly. I loathe business class, everybody wants to pick my brain when I’d much rather be sleeping.”

“You can’t do that here!” Stiles exclaims in a shrill voice, Lydia narrows her eyes at him. “I mean, you can, but not yet? You can totally have a nap, a really long nap if you like, just, in a minute?”

“I don’t want to nap, Stiles,” Lydia makes her way to the back door, “Maddie and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

There’s a crash from the living room, and Derek swears.

“Stiles is gonna be so mad at you,” Scott crows gleefully.

“Shut _up_ ,” Derek hisses, and his face goes guilty as soon as Stiles darts into the living room to check on two of the people he loves most in the world _shoving_ at each other with ripped shirts.

“Really?” He sighs, puts his hands on his hips, “You’re a father,” he says to Scott, “And you’re thirty three years old,” he adds to Derek. “This is how you’re spending Christmas Eve?”

“He started it,” Scott mutters, and Derek elbows him in the side.

Stiles catches sight of the cause of the crash from moments earlier, the hideous lamp he bought Derek before they were together is on the floor under the Christmas tree. It was a joke at the time, something to wind Derek up with, he thinks he said ‘so you have light even when I’m not here,’ and was sort of actually more about trying to make sure Derek felt at home. It was definitely one of the roots that started drawing them together, digging Stiles in until he was hook, line and sinker serious about Derek. Every time he put the lamp on his face would soften, and not because of the dusty pink shade.

Now, it’s broken.

“You’re both on the very bad, no presents ever list,” he snaps sourly, stalking out of the room and upstairs.

“Stiles,” Derek follows him, and Stiles shuts the door of their bedroom none too gently in his face, throws himself on the bed.

“Go away.”

“I’ll fix the lamp,” Derek says through the door, before seeming to remember they don’t have a lock—and Stiles wouldn’t use it anyway because he’s never really going to want to keep Derek out— and lets himself into the room.

“Stiles.”

“I know it’s just a stupid lamp,” Stiles says into the pillow, “I’ll be over it in a minute.”

Derek spreads a hand out over his back, fingers gentling over the material of his t-shirt, dipping underneath the hem to brush skin.

“I know it was important.”

“You and Scott can’t spend thirty seconds together sometimes! You should be setting a good example.”

“Sorry,” Derek says quietly. “You need another minute to mourn?”

Stiles sits up to whip the pillow at his head, kicks his foot into Derek’s thigh and Derek laughs brightly.

“Dick! Don’t mock me.”

“I would never,” Derek’s eyes go wide and he grins, tackles Stiles into the bed, “It was just a lamp.”

“Well, it meant more than that to me,” Stiles huffs, trying not to melt into Derek’s hands as they trail up his sides soothingly.

“I know,” Derek says seriously, “But, I meant that just because it’s broken, doesn’t mean we’re doomed. You’ve lost your wedding ring twice.”

“What?! Lies and slander, I have never—”

Derek holds up a finger, “Once, when you and Scott went fly fishing with your dad, and you came back so jumpy and guilty I thought you’d killed someone when you were out there.” He lifts an eyebrow as he looks down at Stiles. “But, the jeweler we got our rings from called, and asked for your ring size when you were at work—”

“I needed it resized!”

“He said he didn’t have the original to work with,” Derek smirks, “It didn’t take genius detective work to put two and two together.”

“Well, that’s the only time,” Stiles insists.

“Liar,” Derek murmurs against his mouth, looking altogether far too smug. He links their hands together, brings them up to Stiles’ face and kisses Stiles’ fingers.

“The font of the inscription is different.”

“It’s not, I made sure—”

Stiles stops talking when Derek looks triumphant, scrunches his eyes shut, “Ok, fine! Maybe it fell down the sink at work once, when we’d been clearing out files and I was scrubbing my hands off, and I called the place right away, Derek. I promise, I didn’t mean to—”

“Stiles,” Derek laughs, and Stiles blinks at him in surprise, “I don’t care if you lose your ring a million times, as long as you don’t lose me.” He gives Stiles a significant look, “You remember bringing in that lamp? _I_ remember the look on your face when you were explaining I needed something _homey_. I remember all the grocery trips, and you needling me to get a shoe rack because I was constantly tripping over yours and Scott’s shoes. I remember _you_ , making my place feel like a home, not the lamp. It’s not an omen.”

Stiles swallows and looks up at him dubiously, “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Derek rolls off the bed, pulls on his hand, “Come on, we’ve got a bed to make.”

*

Dinner’s a rowdy affair; the Sheriff sitting at the head of the table opposite Stiles, Lydia winding him up about retiring to his left, and Danny and Scott trying to persuade Maddie to eat mashed carrots to the right. Allison’s sleepily nodding to something Isaac’s talking about, a hand lazily stroking her stomach, smiling softly to herself. Everyone’s busy catching up with one another, trading barbs across the table and swapping cartons of take out.

Stiles beams at the scene, hooks his ankle round Derek’s and sips his beer contentedly.

“There’s nothing like take out for Christmas Eve,” he says to the room at large, “No clean up and we’ll all be starving tomorrow.”

“I certainly hope we’re going to be well fed,” Lydia teases.

“You know it,” he scoffs, “I’ve got it all under control.”

“Are we going to have pigs in blankets?” Isaac’s face goes dreamy, “Boyd’s mom makes those when I’m at theirs, and they’re like meat,” he sets his elbows on the table and splays his hands out wide, “And then _more_ meat.”

“Of course we’re gonna have those,” Stiles snorts, glancing at Derek with panicked eyes.

“I sense an emergency trip to the supermarket,” Derek says drily.

“We have bacon, we have sausages, we can totally make them,” Stiles insists, elbowing him. “Anything else any of you are craving?”

“Gherkins,” Allison says suddenly, “And, vanilla ice cream.” The entire table looks at her in horror, and she shrugs, “What? When I was pregnant with Madeline I had a craving for pickled figs in balsamic for a month, then I couldn’t _stand_ the smell of vinegar until she was born.”

“It’s true,” Scott concurs warily, eyeing his wife, “Is that—are we gonna have to have gherkins in the house this time, too?”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Everything!”

“I don’t know,” Stiles muses, “I like me a bit of pickle.”

There’s a beat, and then the Sheriff groans, Derek drops his head in his hands, and Stiles looks at them in surprise.

“What? What— _oh_ ,” he starts laughing manically, “I didn’t even do that on purpose.”

“I for one have no plans to ever be pregnant,” Lydia interrupts briskly, standing and loading take out cartons together.

“Lydia,” Derek jumps up, “We’ll do that, you’re a guest.”

“A man that knows his place,” she says fondly, patting his cheek. Derek scowls at her, and she beams, squeezes his cheeks together before sitting back down and asking Scott how his thesis for his second degree is going.

“Great,” Scott leans forward, “Because this one’s ecology based, I’ve been going further afield for call outs, so as to see more of domestic living for different species.”

“How’s that apartment of yours, kid?” The Sheriff says to Isaac across the table, “You settlin’ in ok?”

“Yeah,” Isaac grins, “Anything was gonna be better than the one before.”

Isaac had lived with Derek through college, and then moved into the cheapest, rustiest, shit heap of an apartment his job as a just starting out psychologist could afford. His understanding nature, tied with his genuine curiosity and watchful behavior had meant it had been an obvious choice of profession. In a town filled with werewolves and things that go bump in the night, he’s built up a steady client list, made up of both people suffering from their town’s unstable nature, and the difficulties of being alive in general. He’d finally moved into a place with no leaks in October. Stiles and Derek had painted the living room whilst Scott oversaw proceedings with Maddie on his knee. Scott takes secret glee in bossing them both about, Stiles knows for sure. He was practically glowing every time he told Derek he’d missed a spot. There’d been a scuffle then, too. Stiles glances between them both, his bro and his man, and despite their ups and downs, and their inability to not get drawn into a tussle and break important things, he feels a wave of fondness for them both. Scott looks up, cracks a smile at him from the other side of the table without pausing in his conversation. Derek reappears from the kitchen and gives him a questioning look.

Stiles shrugs, “I’m just feelin’ the love.”

Derek’s face softens, and then he tosses a dish towel at him, “Feel it at the sink?”

“I could take that as a metaphor,” he mutters, following Derek back to the kitchen and patting his ass on the way.

Derek twists away and towards the pile of plates, cheeks going pink, “Not when your father is in the next room.”

“Eh, he knows his son’s a ruffian, gotta do what he’s gotta do,” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows, and Derek remains stony faced in front of him.

“I’m not letting you grope your way out of helping me wash up.”

“Fine! But, just so you know, most people have dishwashers, dude.”

“They make noise all through the night.”

“This house _literally_ whines sometimes.”

“I like that,” Derek protests, “’S’the sound of a strong house.”

“Or, that it’s going to fall in on us in the middle of the night.”

“I knew it,” Danny announces from the kitchen door, “I’m not the only one that thinks this house is a hazard.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Stiles rallies immediately, “I like the creaks and the fact it looks haunted,” he says loyally. “What other kind of house did you imagine we’d buy, anyway?”

Danny snorts, “A cabin in the middle of the forest, possibly with signs about not getting any closer,” he waves a hand across the air, “Trespassers _will_ be mauled.”

“Nonsense,” Derek dismisses, “We’d string them up first.”

Danny eyes him for a moment, then shakes his head, grins into his beer, “Sometimes I forget you’re not a scary possible murderer and I think you’re being serious about that kind of shit.”

“Who says I’m not?” Derek flashes a smirk over his shoulder.

“You’re washing up, and you’re married to Stilinski; you’re nuts, but you’re not a murderer.”

“Thanks,” Stiles drawls, “Nice backhanded compliment there, Mahealani.”

“I’ll take it,” Derek says easily, kissing his cheek and disappearing into the living room, snatching Danny’s beer off him as he goes.

“Hey!” Danny turns back to Stiles, smiles suddenly, “All jokes aside, man, thanks for dinner.”

“Any time, bro,” Stiles claps him on the back, “You want dessert?”

“Nah,” Danny grins, “Got a date I wanna ring in Christmas with.”

Stiles nods understandingly, “Nice, enjoy.”

“I will,” Danny gives him a wink and Stiles wrinkles up his nose.

“Dude, I don’t need to know.”

“You spent most of college describing your exploits with Derek in _detail_ to me, man,” Danny thumps him on the shoulder, “Deal.”

Stiles would protest, but, Danny has a point. He’s pretty sure he was one of those annoying people that brought up someone in conversation just to say their name, regardless of whether or not they were relevant to said conversation. He may have spent time talking about Derek, Derek’s hands, Derek’s taste in sushi, Derek’s preferences for sweater colors, and Derek’s stamina in bed. He was maybe thrown out of Danny’s room, or even his own shared room with Scott several times.

He’s not like that anymore, though, shut _up_.

*

Allison pads back down the stairs after spending a surprisingly short amount of time getting Maddie to sleep. They’ve all been sitting quietly, listening to her hum a sweet version of Silent Night on the baby monitor; Scott sat with his chin resting in his hand, beaming adoringly at the monitor the whole time. She curls up next to Lydia on the sofa, gratefully accepts the decaf coffee Derek’s had waiting for her in the microwave.

Scott starts flicking through movie channels.

Stiles’ dad’s already dozing in his favorite arm chair and Stiles is beginning to feel the fatigue of a busy few days as he finishes clear up.

“Any takers for _Bad Santa_?”

“Veto,” Derek says immediately, drawing Stiles into his lap as he passes, and kicking his feet up on the table. He only _ever_ gets away with it when he’s not wearing shoes. That and he pointed out that this was his house, too. Stiles was going to have to live with the fact he sometimes put his feet up on the table if _Stiles_ was going to constantly forget to turn the television off when he left a room. Over six years they’ve learnt to co-exist fairly well together. Stiles reaches up and pats Derek’s cheek without looking at him, he’s feeling very fond and merry tonight. It must be a Christmas thing.

“ _Miracle on 34 th Street_?”

Lydia’s eyes light up, “Dylan McDermott being doting and handsome, yes.”

“No,” Isaac groans, “The kid in it is _so_ annoying.”

“She’s awesome,” Scott argues, “Haven’t you seen _Matilda_?”

“Small child with creepy brain powers,” Isaac raises an eyebrow, “Sounds like a day in our lives.”

Stiles lets them argue about movies for a while, content to have it wash over him, curled in Derek’s arms. His feet are warm, he’s well fed, his dad’s snoring beside them; he’s feeling pretty satisfied and disinclined to move, or join the debate.

Derek shakes him gently awake several hours later, nuzzling into his neck, “Merry Christmas,” he murmurs.

“Mmm, what? ‘S’the time?”

“Just gone midnight,” Derek whispers softly, kissing the hinge of his jaw as he trails his hands up Stiles’ arms.

Stiles rubs his eyes, twists to look at Derek. The Christmas lights are twinkling behind them, Isaac and Scott are piled together on the floor asleep, and Allison and Lydia are talking quietly in the corner. He runs a hand across Derek’s cheek, and Derek leans into it.

“Merry Christmas,” he says quietly, “You think Santa’s been yet?”

Derek snorts, kisses his palm and then moves to stand. Stiles disentangles himself from Derek’s legs, stands with wobbly legs of his own; he’s maybe more tired and slightly more drunk than he was expecting. He lurches and without opening his eyes his dad sniggers. How he knows Stiles is stumbling is beyond him, then again, his father knows everything, secret Jedi that he is.

“Hey, old man,” he nudges his dad’s foot, “Merry Christmas.”

“Watch who you’re callin’ old, kid,” his father opens his eyes, smiles fondly at him. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“’S’it Christmas?” Scott mumbles from the floor before his eyes snap open, “Oh my god! It’s Christmas?!” He staggers up, and his foot catches in Isaac’s stomach, “Shit!” Scott thuds to the floor again, and rolls over groaning, “Duuude.”

“Smooth,” Isaac murmurs, still with his eyes closed.

Scott kicks him without any force, and Isaac smirks, grabs at his ankle.

“We certainly don’t need any children here when we have you two for childish antics,” Lydia sighs affectionately, helping Allison to her feet, “Anyone want a glass of Krug to start off the festivities?”

John’s eyes are instantly open, “Sounds like a fantastic idea.”

Stiles reckons he can let his dad have one glass of champagne; he’s careful with the way he drinks these days. It’s never like it was before.

Scott’s phone buzzes, “My mom’s outside, but she doesn’t wanna ring in case she wakes Maddie.”

Lydia shudders, “Working a shift on Christmas Eve, get her in here and put a glass in her hand pronto, she deserves it more than any of us.”

Melissa’s all smiles as she greets them, everyone passing around hushed Christmas greetings once again, and Stiles kisses her cheek, feels her hand squeeze his warmly.

“You should all be getting some rest,” she chides gently, “Big day coming up.”

“It’s Christmas,” Stiles shrugs, “’S’gonna be easy.”

Melissa laughs almost hysterically, pats his cheek, “Just wait until you’re knee deep in wrapping paper, trying to work out how the hell you put the stuffing. I’m _very_ glad you’re in charge this year.”

Stiles gives her a reassuring smile, “’S’gonna be a breeze, trust me.”

*

“Stiles.”

“Mmmf, later, let’s go the fair later.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s hand presses against his back, voice hoarse with sleep, “It’s six thirty.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, you wanted to put the turkey on at six.”

“Shit!” Stiles leaps out of bed, looks around wildly for his socks. “Didn’t the alarm go off?”

“You looked really peaceful—uh, out of it,” Derek amends.

“You let me sleep in because you were too busy basking in my adorableness? Derek, you’re a loon,” Stiles groans.

“You say much nicer things when you’re asleep,” Derek complains, yanking on a shirt.

Stiles ducks under the bed briefly, pulls out a shiny red package and chucks it at Derek. “Here, your first of the day. To prove awake Stiles does care, too.”

Derek rolls his eyes, rips open the package and blanches, “ _This_ is to show you care?”

“Uh huh,” Stiles throws on a festive blue sweater with snowflakes on, as Derek looks down at the monstrosity of a Christmas themed sweater Stiles picked out for him with Allison at the mall. “Scott has one, too.”

“Well now I feel doubly cherished,” Derek says sarcastically, scrunching up his nose when he discovers not only does the sweater have a Christmas tree on the front, but also on the back. It even has tinsel adorned to it.

“We were gonna get them inscribed, but there wasn’t time, plus some woman had already hit on me in Bed, Bath and Beyond and I think Allison wanted to get me out of there, pronto.”

“A woman hit on you?”

“Yeah, amazingly that sometimes happens.”

“What—” Derek’s hands go lax around the sweater, and he suddenly looks wary, “What happened?”

“Obviously, I was totally into it and gave her my number,” Stiles says drily, “Seeing as I’m so unhappily married to a creeper that gazes adoringly at me when I’m _sleeping_.”

Derek’s paranoid expression vanishes and he glares at Stiles, “ _Ha ha_.”

“She asked me if I was into swinging,” Stiles pulls up his pants, arches an eyebrow at Derek, “Which, judging by the way you almost looked like you were gonna hyperventilate just, I was right to reassure her you wouldn’t dig.”

“Do you—is that something you’d want to—” Derek looks so pained even _trying_ , Stiles cuts him a break, steps across the room to kiss him quickly.

“ _No_. Unless, you have some secret desire to test out different waters?”

“No,” Derek says immediately, clutching at his hips, “No, just you.”

“Well, alright then,” Stiles grins at him, “Let’s go cook a turkey!”

Derek bares his teeth in a sardonic smile. Stiles swats his shoulder and leaves the room, humming _It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas_ under his breath.

The turkey, in comparison to all the accompanying vegetables and condiments, is fairly simple. Stiles double checks it a couple of times, but mostly, it’s chill in the oven by itself. The requests for four different types of potatoes, however, is a much more difficult task altogether.

“Can’t we just shove all the potato in the microwave and hope for the best?”

Across the kitchen table, Derek grunts, eyes on where he’s chopping carrots methodically.

“Is that a yes?”

Derek puts the knife down, glances at him, “Do you want to tell Lydia why there are no roast potatoes for her one allowance of carb intake this month?”

“No,” Stiles shudders, “Ok, fine, how’re the veggies coming, sweets?”

“Slowly,” Derek clucks his tongue, “They’re uneven.”

Stiles leans over the table, examines Derek’s perfectly chopped carrots. “They are?”

“Yes, some of them are too thick, and some are too thin.”

“No one will notice,” Stiles promises, “People have different preferences when it comes to girth, anyway.”

“What a way to start the morning,” Scott murmurs, padding sleepily into the room, “My best friend making innuendos.”

“Merry Christmas, bro!” Stiles throws his arms around Scott’s shoulders, pats him heartily on the back, “You sleep ok?”

“Like a log,” Scott beams at him, “Your spare room looks awesome, by the way.”

Stiles pretends to bashfully kick his foot at Scott’s, “Shucks, dude, thanks.”

Derek rolls his eyes, nods at Scott, “You have everything you need?”

“Hard as it is to admit, you guys have been pretty awesome hosts so far,” Scott tells him, “There were even cool wolf shaped soaps in the en suite.”

“I figured you’d appreciate those,” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at them both, “Because you know, you’re both _werewolves_.”

Derek’s eyes go wide, “Shit, how did you know?”

Stiles taps his nose, “I’m a genius.”

“You’re _something_.”

“I _am_ something, something awesome.”

Derek taps his chin with the point of the knife, and it should _not_ look as sexy as it does. “I was thinking something more, idiotic?”

“Please, I light up your life, dick.”

“So, this is what a normal morning looks like for you two,” Scott glances between them both, “You’re literally no different to any other time.”

They both turn to blink at him, “What did you think we did? Sat and read the paper in silence?”

“I certainly never thought you did so much talking,” Scott says with a smirk, grabbing juice from the fridge.

“It’s so sweet you imagine us having sex, Scotty,” Stiles bashes him on the back as he chokes on the juice.

“I didn’t mean that,” he wheezes. “I meant you’re—” he glares between them, “Ugh, never mind. You already look smug enough, I was gonna give you a compliment as well.”

“We’ll leave you a comment card on the pillow tonight,” Derek says easily. Stiles winks at him in approval as Scott disappears back up the stairs to wake Allison and the baby, muttering about what assholes they really are.

Stiles claps his hands together, surveys the table, “Alright, you gonna do the mashed potato next?”

“I can’t imagine anything more exciting,” Derek says drily. Stiles snatches up a slice of carrot and tosses it at his head.

“Morning, sweethearts,” Melissa greets them, kissing Stiles’ cheek, “Got everything under control?”

“Absolutely,” Stiles grabs a cup, sticks it under the coffee machine, “You sit down and prepare for a day of doing nothing but eating and unwrapping presents. We are at your service.”

Melissa eyes Stiles’ attempts to make the pigs in blankets, washes her hands and slides into the seat next to Derek. “You know, I might just stay for a minute, help out?”

“I can do them!” Stiles promises, “Really, you don’t have to—”

“Stiles let Melissa help you,” Derek interrupts, “Unless you want Isaac to give you sad eyes at dinner because you haven’t gotten the one thing he asked for _exactly_ _right_.”

Stiles blows out a breath, nods finally, “Ok, fair point. I’m gonna check on the turkey.”

Derek sniffs the air, “Give it another five minutes.”

“Now that,” Melissa points at him, “Would have come in very handy around my kitchen over the last thirty years.”

Derek looks oddly touched by the comment, and on closer examination looks like he’s actually _blushing_ as he starts carving up the cabbage they bought. Stiles grins fondly at the top of his stupid, adorable head.

Allison joins them at around nine, wheedling Maddie into eating mashed up banana and some soggy cornflakes. As she bounces the baby on her knee, she and Derek talk about her plans for the gym now she’s pregnant again.

“I really think I want to incorporate more classes for other pregnant women,” she says thoughtfully. “Something with a self-defense aspect, but also a yoga class, something not too challenging.”

“I tried yoga,” Lydia announces, coming in looking radiant and pink cheeked. Isaac’s behind her, sweating a little, and Stiles surmounts they’ve been jogging and grins behind his hand imagining Isaac trying to pretend at failing to keep up with her, but not lagging behind to a point of suspicion. Lydia is a very demanding running partner. Often, when she’s home she and Derek go running. Derek comes home and throws himself on the bed in a huff, making Stiles knead his muscles until he feels better. He says she’s difficult to predict because when he runs at her pace, she calls him condescending, when he runs ahead she tells him he’s cheating, and when he runs behind she reprimands him for slowing her down. Stiles has spent many an hour gleefully watching American Idol and being very glad no one even thinks to invite him to go running. Running is the devil’s work. Stiles gets his cardio from sex with his fine ass, very fit husband, thank you very much, Nike. He _does_ just do it.

“It wasn’t for me,” she grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, “I could never clear my mind.”

“I wonder why,” Allison ribs gently, and Lydia tweaks her hair as she passes.

“I’m going to shower; I’ll be down to help shortly.”

“None of you need to help!” Stiles protests, “Why does nobody believe I’ve got this?”

“I believe in you, dude,” Scott says brightly, shaking damp hair near the table and being shooed away by Melissa and Allison.

Stiles pats his chest, winks at his friend, “Thanks, bro, but you’re officially banned from the kitchen on account of yesterday’s cookie fallout.”

Scott’s face falls, “But, it smells really good in here.”

“You said you didn’t even like turkey that much,” Stiles flaps his hands at him, “Go help Isaac up the stairs, he looks like he could use a hand.”

Isaac flips him off wearily, leans on Scott’s shoulder as they head into the hall. Allison flicks on the television, and carol music fills the room.

It’s a very nice, quaint way to start Christmas.

*

At around eleven, Stiles drags Derek halfway down the yard and blows him messily in the tool shed they don’t use. Christmas present number two. He comes all over his own Christmas sweater, and makes Derek retreat to the house to find him a new one. Derek’s expression seems torn between unimpressed and still a little dazed from orgasm. He kisses Stiles filthily before leaving.

“Hey, that’s not fair play, dude!”

Derek waves the dirty sweater over his shoulder without looking back, and Stiles hops around trying to keep warm for a few minutes.

He stills in horror when the door creaks open, and it’s his father peering inside.

“Stiles?”

“Heyyy, dad.”

“The hell are you doin’ out here? Derek said you left your sweatshirt inside,” John waves a hideous fluorescent yellow sweater with a reindeer on the front at him, and Stiles takes it, reminding himself to never ever give Derek head again. Though, well played, _damn him_.

“Any reason you’re hanging around in the tool shed, son?”

“Nope,” Stiles says briskly, yanking on the sweater, “Just came lookin’ for uh—some sheers?”

“Stiles,” John steps forward, and Stiles hopes to god his jeans are clean, please lord let them be free from evidence of what he was doing in here ten minutes ago. John claps him on the shoulder, looks at him sincerely, and Stiles swallows; all thoughts of dirty ventures gone as his dad smiles. “I know you’re nervous, kid, but this is a great thing you’ve done here. You’ve kept us all together these past few years, and I know everyone’s grateful.”

“Oh, man, dad no—”

“No, listen to me, Stiles. I don’t think any of those kids in there would still be alive if it weren’t for you, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be. You take good care of all of us, and this,” he waves a hand at the house, “This is the first of many I want to spend here.”

Stiles stares at him for a moment, and then throws his arms around his dad’s shoulders, “Thanks,” he muffles into the familiar overcoat John’s wearing.

“I’m very proud of you.”

Stiles scrunches his eyes shut, and pretends the dust from all the gardening tools he and Derek haven’t touched since they moved in is getting in his eyes.

“Of course,” John pulls back, “I’m sure as hell hopin’ dinner isn’t gonna kill us all, seeing as you and Derek abandoned your responsibilities in the kitchen for nearly half an hour.”

Stiles blanches, glances at his dad sheepishly, “We just needed some sheers to cut back the tree, to make room for everyone in the living room.”

“My ass,” John mutters, heading for the shed door, “Hey,” he pauses, nods at Stiles, “She’d have liked him, you know.”

Stiles nods, throat sticking, “You always say so.”

“Yeah, but now I know he’s good with kids, too,” John nods assuredly, “Real keeper.”

Derek’s ears are bright red when they come traipsing through the kitchen door, and Stiles knows he’s heard everything.

“You would be in real trouble,” he whispers, clapping a cold hand to the back of Derek’s neck and making him jump, “But, it’s Christmas and I’m feeling generous in spirit and apparently you bein’ good with a baby makes you prime Stilinski material.”

Derek tips his head back to smile at him, and Stiles hums, runs a hand through his hair. “Help me get the turkey out?”

Scott cheers excitedly in the background, “Somebody grab plates, let’s eat now!”

*

Christmas lunch is a loud, excitable affair. Scott and Isaac try and match each other in a competition for who can fit more pigs in blankets in their mouths at once; and Isaac chokes. Lydia tells him his gag reflex is disappointing and bashes him on the back. Stiles helps himself to all four different types of potato, and says nothing when his dad does the same.

Derek discusses teaching some classes at the gym with Allison; Maddie balanced on his knee, helping herself to his green beans. Stiles grabs a spoon, guides mashed potato towards her as he makes an excited noise and she stares up at him with wide eyes, opening her mouth thoughtlessly.

“Atta girl,” he says proudly. Maddie waves a hand in the air excitedly, “Yeah, is that delicious? You want some more? Here we go, sugar, open wide!”

“Which stuffing is vegetarian?” Lydia asks, eyeing both suspiciously.

“One on the left,” Stiles says proudly, “How are you enjoying your mushroom and port brioche?”

“It’s lovely,” she says graciously, “And, I appreciate you going to the extra effort to make it for me.”

“That was all Derek,” Stiles nudges Derek’s knee under the table, “He spent like four hours online trynna find the best alternative for you.”

“That was very thoughtful,” Lydia says to Derek, “Thank you.”

Derek shrugs and scratches the back of his neck, “No problem.”

“Hey, how come Lydia got her own separate dish?” Isaac peers over at her plate, “Can I try it?”

Lydia holds her fork up at him, expression deadly, “I dare you to try.”

Isaac smirks, but doesn’t move; they’ve all learnt the price of taking Lydia’s food from her without permission.

“I think she likes it,” Stiles whispers to Derek, “Do you feel proud?”

Derek turns to glower at him, “Do you feel like sleeping alone later?”

“Never mind,” Stiles says quickly, patting his knee, “You’re a domestic god.”

Maddie grabs at Stiles’ fork, and he catches it before she can do any damage, “Hey, pretty lady, what’chu doin’ with that? You want some more?”

He waves stuffing at her, making his face as excited as possible, “You wanna try some stuffing?” Maddie sucks on the fork, and Stiles glances up at Derek, grinning, and then arches an eyebrow at Derek’s expression. “What?”

Derek shrugs, drapes an arm over the back of Stiles’ chair, “Nothin’.”

“You were thinkin’ how cute I look with a baby, right?”

“You can’t prove it,” Derek sniffs, pointedly not meeting his gaze.

“Sap,” Stiles says without any heat. Derek digs his nails into his thigh for a moment, making him jerk and laugh, startled.

Once everyone seems to have had their fill of food, Scott’s leg starts vibrating under the table and he jumps up, begins manically loading the plates together, eyes determined.

“You got another family you gotta go see, Scotty?”

“Presents,” Scott says in a steely voice, “We never have to wait this long normally.” He points at Derek, who is the only person still eating, “I swear you’re doing it on purpose.”

Derek smirks around his fork, pulls it out slowly, “I’m just enjoying my meal, Scott, I did work very hard at it after all.”

“You chopped vegetables and made some suck up dish for Lydia,” Scott says in a shrill voice, “Hurry up!”

Derek lifts his fork up, and then stops, holds it inches from his face. Scott elbows the back of his head as he strides past with everyone else’s dishes.

“Did you both regress ten years over night?” Melissa asks from across the table. Derek flushes and immediately begins eating again.

John holds his glass up to both Stiles and Derek, “You put up a good lunch, boys, thank you.”

“Yes,” Allison concurs, raising her own glass, “It was delicious, thank you.”

“Saved me hours of hassle,” Melissa winks at them both, “And you’ve both been excellent hosts, I especially enjoyed the wolf shaped soaps in the bathroom.”

Stiles is fighting off a deep blush at all the attention, hunches up a shoulder and waves a vague hand in the air, “It’s cos, you know, werewolves.”

“I figured,” Melissa says fondly.

“Dude, I could fry an egg on your face right now,” Isaac muses, poking Stiles’ cheek across the table.

“Bite me,” Stiles hisses, and Derek clears his throat, holds his own glass up.

“Thank you for all being here to celebrate Christmas with Stiles and I, it’s been a pleasure having you.”

Stiles gawps up at him for a moment before nodding hastily, “Yeah, really, it’s been awesome.”

“Like any of our family gatherings,” Lydia adds, clinking her glass with Derek’s and winking at Stiles.

After a moment of silence Scott claps his hands together, looks at them all expectantly, “Can we get to the presents now?”

Stiles cracks up and chases him into the living room with Maddie in his arms, shrieking with glee.

*

The presents Stiles and Derek picked out for everyone go down a treat, and Stiles revels in receiving socks from his dad (a traditional gift), a box set of the _Alien_ trilogy from Scott, some sort of complicated math book from Lydia—she taps her temple and points at Stiles mouthing “ _to keep you on your toes”_ — and really, it’s like she gave him homework for Christmas, but, she’s here, they’re all here, and Derek’s a solid wall of heat behind him so he beams his thanks and decides Derek can read it to him. Allison gives him a yearlong membership pass to her gym, biting her lip sincerely and saying she hopes he likes it. Stiles manages to give her a passable smile.

Scott takes a picture of his face, “Oh, babe, you were right, that was priceless.”

“Hey, what?”

Allison pulls a larger package out from under the tree, tosses it in his lap, “Couldn’t resist.”

“Not cool,” he cries, “I was trying desperately to be appreciative there.”

“The card’s in Derek’s name,” she says with a grin, and Derek swipes it out of Stiles’ hands to examine it. “I figured he’d do more than stand around the water cooler and pretend to stretch.”

“I’ve made an art form out of that I’ll have you know.”

“You do look pretty good stretching,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles feels himself go hot all over. He’s relieved that his dad’s busy examining a book of Tolkien art prints they got him to overhear anything, but Scott and Isaac both glare at Derek. He shrugs and looks indifferent to their horror.

“I can’t believe I went to the trouble of getting you anything,” Isaac mutters, throwing Derek’s gift at his head.

Derek catches it easily, narrows his eyes at Isaac, “It’s not another scarf is it?”

“I hate you,” Isaac retorts, kicking at Derek’s feet. It’s actually a t-shirt with Derek’s face on it with a slogan underneath saying _I Am The Danger_. Stiles laughs raucously, suspecting he’ll end up wearing it more than Derek.

“Oh, Scott,” Allison breathes out as she unwraps porcelain figure of a little girl with similarities to how Maddie could look in just a short few years, wearing a chain of daises and holding a bow and arrow behind her. “It’s beautiful.”

“I want her to grow up proud of her heritage, all of it,” Scott says softly.

Allison seems to be blinking away tears, and Scott clambers up on the couch beside her, kisses her hand and then her forehead. Melissa sniffs and wipes her eyes.

“What the hell,” Lydia interrupts, gazing down at the present Stiles and Derek have gotten her. “You bought me a weekend at a spa?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t need this!”

“We know you don’t,” Stiles says loftily, “It’s something you’d secretly like, and never ask for because you think you should be working all the time.”

“You need a break, and you’re allowed to pause every once in a while,” Derek adds.

Lydia looks between them, eyes narrowed, “You two are disgustingly cute sometimes, it’s awful.”

“Thanks,” Stiles beams at her, squeezes Derek’s hand.

“I’ll have it if you don’t want it,” Isaac offers, “I’ve always wanted to try one of those mud baths.”

“You can come with me if you like,” Lydia says graciously, “Thank you,” she adds to Stiles and Derek.

“You’re welcome, hey, guys,” Stiles addresses Scott and Allison. “You wanna see what we got for Maddie?”

Scott frowns, “You guys got all those cool baby clothes from the Marvel store, wasn’t that—”

“Nah,” Stiles stands, gestures for everyone else to do the same, “Derek made something.”

“Made something?”

“Uh huh.”

Everyone wraps up warm, follows them out past the shed and further down the yard. Melissa shoots them both a quizzical look, and Stiles smiles enigmatically.

“What are we—”

“Oh my god,” Allison breathes out.

They stop short at the end of the yard, to where there’s a small, perfectly crafted play set complete with a tiny swing and a mini slide. There are stars and planets carved into the sides of the wood, painted and varnished to withstand any weather. Derek’s kept it outside for the last fortnight to see how it withstands the snow, and like Stiles predicted; it’s done just fine. He did some of the painting, but most of it is all Derek. He’s quietly pieced together something he can give to Scott and Allison that’s personal, for their legacy, for Maddie and Stiles feels super choked up just thinking how damn proud he is of him.

Scott bowls into Derek’s side, catching him off guard and hugging him tightly, “ _Dude_.”

“It’s beautiful, Derek,” Allison says reverently, touching a crescent moon and turning to smile at him, “Thank you.”

“I had some spare time,” Derek says gruffly.

Scott laughs, shakes his head, “Take the compliment, dumbass. This is the nicest thing you’ve ever done for us. Except, you know, all those times you saved our lives.”

“Think we’re even on that one,” Derek manages, catches Stiles’ eye over Scott’s head and smiles so widely Stiles thinks his chest compresses at how much love he feels.

“It is beautiful,” Lydia says brightly, “But, is anyone else freezing their ass off?”

Isaac shrugs off his coat, wraps it round her shoulders and begins guiding her back up the yard. Melissa pats Derek’s cheek and says something Stiles doesn’t catch but makes Derek duck his head. His dad rocks back on his heels looking pleased as punch about everything. Stiles can relate.

*

After unleashing all their energy in an epic snowball fight, everyone crowds into the living room to watch It’s A Wonderful Life. Dusk falls quickly, and Stiles can feel his eyes getting heavy again when Isaac asks if they’re ever going to get to dessert.

“Dude, haven’t you eaten enough?”

“I’m a growing boy,” Isaac pats his stomach, “I need sustenance all the time.”

“There’s Yule log and trifle,” Stiles wriggles into Derek’s side, “Get it yourself.”

Isaac throws a cushion at him, “I’m a guest.”

“You lived with me for years, doesn’t count.”

“Does anyone else want dessert?” Derek interrupts, “I can get it.”

“Such a good husband,” Stiles declares in a shrill voice. Derek digs his fingers into his side, making him squirm sleepily, “Nooo.”

“Lazybones,” Derek huffs, standing and taking all his delicious warmth with him, “Coffee anyone?”

Scott rolls to a stand from the floor, follows him into the kitchen, “I’ll help.”

Derek stops in the door, narrows his eyes at him, “Why?”

“Because,” Scott waves his arms around, “I’m a helpful person.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am, too! Stiles, tell him.”

“Stiles isn’t here,” Stiles mumbles drowsily.

“I can get coffee and dessert by myself.”

“Oh, so you won’t _let_ me help?”

Derek huffs, shifts awkwardly and Stiles grins into the couch cushions. He sees Derek give an almost full body eye roll, and Scott imitate him.

“It’s honestly like they’re related,” Melissa murmurs from his other side. Stiles sniggers. Both boys turn, shoving at each other as they head into the kitchen. Stiles waits for the telltale noise of broken china that never comes.

“Oh my god, d’you think they killed each other?”

He sits up just in time to see Derek re-emerging with slices of cake on a tray, and Scott behind him with coffee mugs.

“Did I sleep for forty years? Is this—a dream? I feel like you’d be naked in the dream, and Scott wouldn’t be here. You and the cake, though…”

Scott snorts, passes him a coffee, “You’re gross, your dreams are gross.”

“You’re gross,” Stiles corrects, dumping as much sugar as possible into his coffee before Derek spots him and confiscates it. He’s an adult, ok? He can handle sugar _and_ caffeine.

“It’s so nice to have grown up conversation,” John chides from the comfy chair. “Doesn’t at all sound like you’re both still sixteen.”

“Don’t even try and pretend like you’re nostalgic for those days, dad,” Stiles warns, “I was hyperactive and annoying as hell.”

“You were interesting and curious,” Derek argues, and Stiles twists to smile at him, “And, you were annoying.”

“Oh, shut _up_. You were the one bossing me about and threatening all our lives.”

Derek quirks a smile at him, and Stiles knows they’re getting onto dangerous territory. He knows Derek regrets their rough beginning, knows they all do.

“I like you best now,” he says in a segue he hopes isn’t too obvious.

His dad snorts from behind his book, and Stiles scowls at him, he started it. Derek laces their hands together, and Stiles forgets to be cross or sad anymore.

“Anyone wanna play charades?” Isaac asks brightly.

“No,” Lydia, Allison and Stiles all say together.

“Jenga?”

“Last time we played Jenga Derek didn’t make a move for half an hour and then got pissed when they all fell down.”

“It was a lopsided table,” Derek retorts hotly, scowling at Stiles.

“Either way, I won.”

“By default.”

“You are the _worst_ loser in the world.”

“Actually,” Scott interrupts, “You’re worse.” He glances round at everyone, “One time in fourth grade, I beat Stiles at an egg and spoon race, and he threw his egg at me.”

Derek chokes, and his dad looks up in shock, “Stiles!”

“What?! I don’t remember it like that! I fell, and the egg just—you know—hit you in the face.”

“Yeah,” Scott grins at him, “Then you cried, and I got stuck with you for life.”

“That is not an accurate retelling of that story,” Stiles sits forward, and Derek mumbles something about caffeine and sugar kicking in. “Shut up! What happened is—”

Maddie hiccoughs over the monitor and Allison holds up a hand, “Wait,” she whispers.

There’s a wail and she sighs, starts to get up.

“Don’t, honey,” Melissa stands, “We’ll go,” she turns to look at John expectantly, “Won’t we?”

“Sure,” John gets up, points at Stiles, “You best not teach any grandkids to behave like that, son.”

“I was nine!”

“Mmm, and starting from tomorrow I want to hear you telling Maddie nothing but how to be a good sport.”

Stiles scowls, folds his arms, “Only if Derek and Scott do, too.”

“Oh, they will,” his dad says in a steely voice, Derek shrinks back into Stiles and Scott nods earnestly.

From the hall they hear Melissa start laughing.

*

“Hey, man,” Scott hooks an arm around Stiles’ shoulders as he’s folding wrapping paper later.

“Yo, what’s up?”

“We’re heading up,” Scott wiggles his eyebrows, “Your dad and my mom have got Maddie in their room, so.”

“Ew, dude, no, wash my sheets after.”

“You used my bed in college, Stiles, I know you did,” Scott points out, correctly. It was one time. They were in the moment. He couldn’t tell which way was up when Derek was doing that _thing_ with his hand, let alone which bed was his.

“Any way,” Scott’s face turns soft, “Thanks for this.”

Stiles shrugs, “It was no big deal, man, honestly. It was…” he hesitates, looks down at his hands, “It was really nice, for us, too.”

“Look at you,” Scott says in a proud voice, “All grown up and saying things like _us_.”

Stiles throws wrapping paper at his head, waves him out of the room. Scott grabs Allison’s hand and they disappear up the stairs giggling.

Derek comes in from the kitchen, scrunches his nose up, “Am I gonna hear that all night?”

“Not if I can distract you,” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at him.

“I am _still_ in the room,” Isaac huffs from the floor, gazing at the chessboard he and Lydia are using to play checkers. She went upstairs half an hour ago to change, and Stiles reckons she’s probably fallen asleep. She was going to beat Isaac anyway. He thinks it’s her way of being a generous winner and letting him save face. She’s sometimes nice like that.

“You wanna do something about that?” Derek nudges his hand with his foot, grins roguishly at him.

“You’re an ass,” Isaac groans, “I’m too wired to sleep.”

“You wanna go for a run?”

Isaac blinks up at him, “What, now?”

Derek casts a glance at Stiles, and he nods, “Do whatever, I’ll be around.”

“He’ll write you every day,” Isaac simpers, standing and yanking on his boots.

Stiles flips him off, shoulder checks Derek gently, “Have fun.” Derek nods, gives him a look that says thanks, and disappears through the kitchen with Isaac.

It was a way for them to reconnect after the shit fest that was high school. Once, Scott had become a stable alpha, and Derek was willing to be part of a pack that wasn’t entirely of his own making. He and Isaac began spending time together again, went running, sometimes trained with Scott. Stiles would sit on a downed tree and tease the crap out of them, ignore the way his stomach fluttered any time Derek fell for more than a few seconds, or seemed to look for Stiles when he did something particularly cool. They made it to college and Derek was around, lingering in Stiles and Scott’s dorm room, teasing Stiles when he was cranky about work, but helping him study anyway. He’d show up and help Stiles cook dinner without any explanation other than that he was hungry. They’d sit on the bed and watch shitty horror movies, or Stiles would discover yet _another_ tv show Derek wasn’t up to date with and they’d marathon it. He got over Lydia, he met other people, none of them ever made him feel the same weird, delicious swoopy thing Derek made him feel just walking into a room and locking eyes with Stiles.

He’d been studying in the library, walked home in an exhausted daze, and Derek had been asleep on his bed. Obviously, he’d come over to hang out, and as he never bothered with normal things like texting, had waited around. Stiles hadn’t thought twice about it, kicked off his shoes and told Derek to scoot over. Derek had obliged, rolling over and lifting the covers. He’d thrown his arm round Stiles’ waist, nosed into the back of his neck, and in the morning Stiles had turned to look at him, let his feelings flood over him. Derek’s eyes had opened lazily and they’d blinked at each other across the pillow, and Stiles had _known_. They’d shuffled towards each other, still slow with sleep and Derek had pressed his mouth to Stiles’ softly. Stiles remembers clutching Derek’s shoulder like he was afraid Derek was gonna bolt, and Derek had reached up to lace their fingers together, held his hand carefully.

Scott had come home and half fallen back out the door, screeching about the ancient art of using a tie on the door. Stiles had been naked and not at all inclined to get off Derek and find one, had told him to come back later.

Now, he’s sitting up in bed, being stupidly reminiscent, when Derek pads into the room, shirking his shirt.

Stiles whistles, and Derek throws the shirt at his head.

“Good run?”

“Uh huh,” Derek kneels on the bed, crawls up to cage Stiles in, straddling his legs, “You do much with your free hour?”

“Thought about you,” Stiles scrunches up his nose, “Which is awful.”

“I feel so cherished,” Derek says flatly, burying his nose against Stiles’ neck and breathing in deeply. “My poor ego.”

“Your ego is fine,” Stiles says easily, running his hands up Derek’s back, “You want your last present?”

Derek sits back, nods, “You want yours?”

“Duh,” Stiles flaps his hands, “Gimme gimme.”

Stiles has been documenting their year; the move, Derek trying to install the electricity without help; the mattress they slept on before they’d unpacked the bed—complete with a beaming Stiles and a half asleep Derek in the background; Allison going down the stairs on a cushion with Maddie; Scott and Stiles standing in the hole they dug in the backyard for the hell of it; Stiles and Derek at the front door grinning at each other the day they moved in. He’s had all the pictures bound up in an album and he chews his thumb as he watches Derek look through it.

“Do you—is it alright?”

Derek nods, wordlessly, fingers tracing over Stiles’ face where he’s smiling like a loon at the camera. He leans forward, tips Stiles’ chin up and kisses him.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Stiles shrugs, runs his hands up Derek’s arms, “Just wanted somethin’ you could keep and like—remember everything with. Chapter in your history and all—I know you’re a big history nerd, after all.”

Derek’s still looking at him like he just gave him the moon, and he squirms under the scrutiny, “Dude, gimme my present before I explode!”

“Bossy,” Derek huffs, sliding off him and putting the album carefully on his bedside table. He opens the door underneath and pulls out a chunky looking package.

“Is it a unicorn?”

Derek snorts, hovers nervously at the edge of the bed as Stiles unwraps it. It’s his Jeep—albeit, a mini version—Derek’s carved him a mini version of his beloved Jeep. When he looks closely there’s two passengers inside, one in a dark jacket with a lot of scruff and the other in a blue checked shirt. Stiles touches the faces in awe, sets it down in his lap to look up at Derek.

“You’re really perfect,” he says after a second.

Derek’s cheeks tinge pink and he curls up on the bed next to Stiles, hides his face against his side.

“Far from,” he says quietly.

Stiles sets the Jeep on his own bedside table, squirms until he’s eye level with Derek, “It’s awesome, like, amazing, Derek, thank you.”

Derek hunches up a shoulder, tugs Stiles close and kisses his chin. Stiles grins, runs his fingers up Derek’s back.

“I love you,” he says simply. “I don’t think we’ll ever pull off a better Christmas, but, every one I get with you feels like the best,” he presses his whole weight against Derek’s until there’s no space between them, kisses him. Derek responds immediately, dragging Stiles on top of him and clutching at him desperately.

“I—thank you,” he says between kisses. "I love you, so much more than I ever thought I would be able to ever love someone." Derek exhales sharply, cradling Stiles' face in his hands tightly, " _Stiles_."

“I know," Stiles says simply, "I know." He grinds his hips down, watches Derek’s eyes flutter shut as he lets out a choked moan, “D’you think anyone heard that?”

Derek’s eyes snap open and he smirks suddenly, expression predatory, “Do you care?”

“No,” Stiles breathes out as Derek’s hand slips inside his sweats, the other splaying out across his back, holding him fast, “Really— _really_ don’t.”

Stiles hums in contentment when Derek leans up to kiss him again, a little louder when he pushes Derek’s shoulders and they fall into the pillows, Derek pliant and warm underneath him.

“Do you think they heard that?” Derek says against his mouth.

Stiles groans, rocking into Derek’s hand, “Probably.”

“Better try and be quiet then,” Derek murmurs, twisting his hand and swallowing the noises Stiles can’t help but make when they touch like this, always, every time.

“It’s Christmas,” Stiles grinds out, nipping at Derek’s jaw, “We’re being joyful, spreading good will.”

Derek laughs, and it turns into a groan, the bed creaks, Stiles thinks maybe Scott will kill them in the morning.

Eh, it’s their house.

He feels his toes curl just thinking about it, presses closer to Derek, feels glad and merry and loved.

 


End file.
